Intrusion: The Jail Break
by Chriscoin
Summary: A Psion who's struggling to overcome his past is sent on a mission to support a town in need. There is an evil that must be extinguished, and many forces stand to defend it. The closer he and his companions get to their objective, the more perilous and dark their struggles become; threatening to bring out the worst in them before being dragged into the abyss.
1. Prologue: Home Wrecker

Steadying his breathing, Sungival deftly navigates a steep rocky trail with some effort. The sky is clear with plenty of humidity, causing him to sweat profusely. Tree shade is a welcomed respite from the constant sun, he is glad the mountain side is well forested.

"Almost there." He tells his companion behind him, a young woman who is keeping pace with what appeared to be little difficulty. She nods in response. Sungival continues his trek, thinking how wearing men's clothing and tying her dark hair tied in a bundle did little to deter his attraction to her. It suited her well. He catches a beam of sunlight in eyes through the parting of leaves. It's a windy day; he thinks to himself, it should help mitigate the heat of the open sun.

Before long, they find themselves before large boulders- cliff side rocks. "This is it!" He shouts excitedly as he begins to rapidly ascend the steep rocks on all fours. His companion follows closely behind. "Careful now, follow my lead." He grunts as he pulls himself up a steep rock face. After pulling himself up, he offers his hand to his companion, but she ignores it and pulls herself up with ease. "Huh. Well done. You're in better shape than I gave you credit for Phyllis." She smiles. They're atop of a large jutting rock on the side of a mountain- breaking out of the forestry and exposed to the rays of the sun. They can see the opposing mountain across the valley, and below is the city DramBridge, its magnificent castle in full view.

"My, this is quite the sight, Sungival." Phyllis says with taking in the view, approaching the ledge.

"Yes. Yes- I. . . I often come here to meditate alone" Sungival replies hesitantly. "Getting out of the city and seeing it all from the outside helps me . . . get out of my own head so to speak."

"You mean telepathically? It helps you attune your psionics?"

"What? No. I mean, it just relaxes me and gets me out of the routine. Sticking in that city, doing the Court's Psion's bidding- it gets to me at times."

"And here I thought you were fond of your telepathy." She says, sitting down, legs outstretched before her.

"Oh I am," he responds, sitting as well, crossing his legs "But it helps me to remind myself that I'm just a man, and there's more to life than court business."

"But we are already so far beyond this city and the business of the royalty and courts." She says looking sternly into his eyes. Sungival returns the gaze, brow furrowed, mouth agape. "So much so we may never be able to return."

"No, hold on." Sungival gets on his feet, yet remains crouching. "Wait- I." He searches for words, ruffling his wavy brown hair with his right hand. "I feel like you're on to something there. Haven't we already left this city?" he scrunches his face as he tries to recall something vital.

"Well," Phyllis breaks her gaze and returns it towards the city. "Say you have the freedom to do anything in world- have anything in the world- what would you do?" Sungival ceases his ruffling.

"What I would want." He says blankly- all but forgetting his previous contention with his memory. "What do I really want . . . ?" He curls his lips in and looks at the ground. "I think it's quite indicative of my character that I. . . I think I can answer what you would want, Phyllis, easier than what I would want." Phyllis continues to gaze upon the city.

"Then what do you think I want." She responds in a low- almost sultry voice.

". . . You want fame and power. You believe that your position of royalty should afford you a status in the world, and under no circumstances should you be held back by responsibilities to your lineage. "He says with certainty; he looks at her intensely, as though he is pouring all his being into the act. She finally turns to face him, her yellow eyes lock with his. "You'll do anything to achieve what you want and despite my protest, and I know nothing I say can ever deter that ambition." He leans in- eyes burning with intensity; reaching past her head and pulling a pin out of her bundled hair- it felt all too easy for something he's never done before. Her hair becomes undone, she doesn't seem to notice. "Now you tell me what I want." He growls. He cups her chin in his hand and draws his face near . . . the moisture of her perspiration running down his hand, the warmth of her face, her breath pressing against this lips- all these stimuli felt magnified in the suspense of this moment . . . a suspense that is shattered with a loud voice.

"Hey!" shouts a familiar masculine voice towards the base of the jutting rock- piercing the rhythm of the scene. Sungival draws back and snaps his head to the direction of the shout. A large man in black armor, blonde hair and a full beard, next to him is a younger, short woman with black hair and leather clothing, bashfully covering her face.

"Oh my, how risqué." She mutters. There's a noticeable parting in her fingers, exposing an inquisitive eye.

"You've been ignoring us this entire time. It's like you couldn't see or hear us." The man says. Sungival is momentarily dumbfounded before his eyes light up in recognition.

"Dorian and Lakota . . . what are you doing here?" he asks hazily, pulling his hand away from Phyllis and pressing it against his forehead. "Wait; rather, what am I doing with-"He turns to face Phyllis again, who is suddenly being held from behind by a young man with a pale skin, pale hair and effeminate facial features.

"How cruel Sungival," the effeminate man says, caressing Phyllis' face. "First you take a lady knight's hand against her will, and now you're trying to seize the hand of royalty." Phyllis releases a small moan and the man's caressing hand reaches below her neck. Sungival jumps back and scrambles to his feet; his entire body trembling. "I never took you for a home wrecker though. "The man adds with a sly expression. Sungival feels a lump form in his throat. "What do you say, Kat? Is this guy the worst, or is he the worst?

"Kat?" Sungival asks when he notices Phyllis' hair is suddenly blonde, her eyes brown, her jawline fuller. It isn't Phyllis at all. Her eyes scorched with indignation.

"He's vile." The woman says in a low but resolute voice laced with disgust. Sungival turns pale and steps back in horror.

"Sungival, your footing!" Lakota shouts. Dorian is swinging a lasso on his side next to her, expressionless.

"Huh?" Sungival mutters in confusion as the rock directly under him- and him alone- crumbles and gives way. He falls back, arms flailing. "woah-woah-woah!" but before he can make much headway down the mountain, the noose of a lasso grasps his foot tightly. His plummet downward is stopped abruptly, as he hangs upside down from his foot, the noose so tight it seels like his foot might be severed at any moment. He's rapidly pulled up back to the top of the jutting rock, hitting the back of his head on the rock as he's dragged up. "Ow!" Lakota helps him orient himself, and begins to untie the noose once he reaches the top safely.

Sungival looks to his right; the couple disappeared. His expression is sullen.

"That was a close call." Lakota says, undoing the lasso on his foot. "Lucky for us Dorian had this rope with him."

"Of all the methods of teleportation I've experienced," Dorian says as he coils his rope. "Dream travel is by far the strangest." Sungival stares at him with an exaggerated frown when it all comes back to him.

"Oh, that's right: I'm dream traveling." He says blankly as he finds himself abruptly on his back, staring at tree branches and noisy birds.

In his peripheral vision he sees Lakota jump to her feet energetically. He sits up.

"Ahhh" She stretches her arms out and arcs her back. Patting her pouches on her hips she reviews her surroundings. "Well, judging from the flora and temperature, we're certainly in Northern Windoren at the very least, and better yet, no one seems to have robbed us."

"Middle of a forest." Dorian says, already on his feet, similarly reviewing his possessions. Let's start looking for landmarks so we can track exactly where we are."

"Scouting!" Lakota replies enthusiastically and walks away from Sungival and Dorian. Sungival is sitting on the ground, hanging his head. Dorian grabs Sungival's shoulder aggressively, who jolts his head up in response.

"Don't let it get to you, man. We all have our own nonsense we're sorting through. You transported us hundreds of miles in a matter of hours. Now we focus on the job."

"Yeah." He nods his head solemnly "Yeah, let's go." He stands and they follow Lakota's lead.


	2. Chapter 1: I keep going in circles

Step by step, Sungival attempts to keep the mission in the forefront of his mind. _First, we have to discover our location- then, we travel to our destination_ , he thinks to himself. _Sequence, yes, everything is about sequence. Don't worry about having exposed your issues to Lakota and Dorian; we focus on walking in the wood until we find out where we are_.

Breathing in a deliberate manner, he surveys his surroundings as he walks: dense green forestry, a variety of small bushes strewing the ground, no road in sight. Their pace is plodding, the brush is thick and difficult to navigate, bushes and weeds impeding their footing; the group generates the sounds of leaf ruffling and branch cracking as they traverse the wilderness. Dorian is behind him, to his right and Lakota is ahead of them ten meters or so.

 _Its morning: we've got plenty of time before nightfall_ , Sungival reassures himself. He turns his head to the right and steals a glance at Dorian; Dorian's expression and body language suggest an active and confident state of mind. His blonde hair is short; his beard isn't thick enough to hide his jawline. His shoulders are broad and he towers over most people at one hundred ninety centimeters. He wears a bronze circlet over his brow and wields spiked knuckled gauntlets; one could only imagine the gruesome brutality these weapons could inflict. Dorian is aged thirty three, roughly thirteen years Sungival's senior.

"Sungival," Dorian says, noticing his glance. "So this dream travel, does it usually work that way? It didn't seem like you were too proud of what we saw. Romantic drama is always embarrassingly personal." Sungival slows his pace to stand side by side with Dorian.

"Technically speaking, yes," Sungival responds, he presses an index finger against his chin. "The initiator of the devotion- that's me, carriers themselves through a teleportation through the initiators' and his guests' slumber. The actual mechanism for travel is not well understood-but – ehhhh" Sungival shakes his abruptly "That's not you were asking about." He closes his eyes and taps his forehead with his index finger. "Yes, since we are experiencing dreams as a form of travel, we run the risk of the dreamscape getting personal. The dreams are typically under the initiator's control, but with psionics, nothing is guaranteed."

"You mean, the powers could effectively backfire; regardless of the skill of the practitioner." Dorian clarifies.

"Yes, like I mentioned at the monastery, I could have been stuck in a paralyzed state if things went really badly. "

"Not a bad way to make use of one's slumber though." Dorian rubs his jaw. "It's quite interesting; falling asleep in a monastery on the main land, and waking up in a forest on an island."

"Things can go so wrong that you can end up five hundred miles further away from your target, so it's quite the gamble, honestly."

"Funny." Dorian narrows his eyes and draws his face near Sungival's "I don't remember you telling us about that before trying it."

"I'm pretty experience with the power." Sungiva says nervously as he leans away with his hands up. "Chances of that happening weren't that high and-"

"There we go!" Lakota shouts out and rushes further ahead. She runs to the base of a tree with a thick trunk, its size dwarfing its peers. The trunk itself is tall, rounded and did not sprout branches at least twenty feet up. Lakota gripped her hands around the trunk best she could and digs into the bark with her fingers. Pursing her lips, she steps back and shakes her head; she turns around and shouts to Dorian: "Let's make use of that rope you've got!"

Lakota's has a face that is best described as striking. Her eyes are large with shining green irises, but had the disconcerting habit of staring too hard. Her mouth was small, the center of her upper lip curved to resemble a turtle's mouth- her default expression appeared as a slight frown. Her eyebrows were thick, dense and stubby. Her stern face was in stark contrast to her disposition; "it's just the way my face is" she told Dorian when he asked why she looked so angry upon their first meeting. She wore her dark hair in a ponytail and carried a number of weapons on her person in plain view- a hand crossbow, a short sword, a belt of daggers across her torso. She always carried moved about with balance and grace, she navigated the brush of the forest with little trouble and far less noise than Dorian and Sungival.

Dorian ties a noose on one end of his rope and tosses it over a sturdy looking branch, and he pushes the rope up until the noose end hangs around his knees. "Me and Sungival" Lakota starts, "Will climb this tree and with a little work, we can determine our position. We coordinate that with the map and then we move from there." Dorian and Sungival merely nod in agreement. She places her foot in the noose of the rope hanging over the branch. "Pull me up fellas." Both men begin to pull down on their end of the rope with the lion's share of the effort being performed by Dorian; pulling furiously on the rope as though he were the one climbing up, pulling one hand at a time in rapid succession. Sungival struggles to keep pace as he pulls the rope with both hands at a time. As soon as she can, Lakota reaches the branch the rope is hanging over and nimbly climbs on top. Once on the branch, maintaining balance on all fours- much like a cat, she pounces from one branch to another, getting towards the top of the tree.

"All right, let's get some sense of direction here, shall we? . . . annnnd "Lakota presses her thumbs to her temples closes her eyes and furrows her brow. " Hyooooooo" she belts out while her face begins to turn red.

"What is she doin'?" Dorian asks titling his balance to the side to get a better angle of her strained face.

"I uh," Sungival starts. "I think she's using the psionic power called 'know direction'." He tilts his head as well. "but," he scratches his head. "I'm pretty sure she doesn't have access to that discipline."

"I think she's messing with us."

"Huh, you think so?"

"Haaaaaaaa!" produces a small round compass. Its needle wobbles as it tilts towards a magnetic pull.

"See. I told you." Dorian says flatly.

"That's not very funny. " Sungival says with a frown.

"This direction!" She shimmies around to the other side of the tree and tosses a smooth white rock the size of a man's closed fist down the tree; not hitting a single branch on the way down, it lands with a thud. "That stone represents north. All right Sungival, time for you to come up." Dorian pushes his end of the rope over the other side of the branch, lowering the noose. Sungival, in similar fashion, places his foot in the noose and grabs the rope tight, as he's raised up in quick fashion.

 _So I was just in the way earlier_ \- Sungival thinks to himself. When Sungival reached the branch, he climbs up with difficulty. His balance far shakier than Lakota, almost frighteningly so; he struggles to stay atop of the branch.

"I'm not cut out for this" He complains as he struggles to reach the next branch while trying his best not to fall off. Lakota positions herself near him and outstretches her hand.

"Grab on. Be careful; try to save us the embarrassment of seeing you fall." Grasping her hand, he stabilizes and begins his ascent with difficulty, but manages to rise to the upper end of the tree. Near the top he gets a fair view of the surroundings.

Trees as far as the eye can see. The sky is clear and sunny; season is early spring providing a comfortable temperature with a soothing breeze. The landscape is mostly flat, save for the dip and rise of a few hills.

Windorin is an island off the mainland; the biomes located on this island are similar to this forest, lacking extreme temperatures and thus is ideal for a wide variety of life. Having returned here after a year away strokes a nostalgic note in Sungival. _I guess home is still home even after all I've been through_ , he thinks. He couldn't see the far horizon very well; the tree he is stationed on isn't tall enough. Turning his head to the south east, he sees the only identifiable land mark: a large mountain in the distance.

"I think I can pin point our location now." Sungival says confidently. He presses his fingertips against his head lightly and closes his eyes. Steadying his breathing, Sungival's consciousness and attention are drawn inwards, the focus of his thoughts condensing into one mantra: Where am I. His sensation of touch and its connection to outside stimuli becomes suppressed, his hearing, sense of smell, the breeze of the wind brushing his skin begins to fizzle in its impression. It is as if his consciousness is disseminating into the sky itself. In a dream like fashion he can see himself, sitting in the tree alongside Lakota, her attention fixed on his meditative posture; while Dorian's figure is obscured by the surrounding trees. Further and further away his consciousness rises into the sky- and before noticing it, the landscape is an illustration- a map. Placing a finger on his location on this map, Sungival drags it to the bottom left, settling it directly on the mountain on the map labeled "Crater Mountain." Sungival taps his finger on the mountain, and his meditation breaks; his senses return to normal.

"We're north east of Crater Mountain," he says.

"Would you look at that; you got us to the right place. Pychoportive's a great discipline isn't it?" Lakota remarks with a smile.

"So is clairsentience. It's a really useful; you shouldn't make fun of it." He scolds. Lakota shrugs her shoulders and pouts her lips mockingly. She shouts down their current location to Dorian, who replies: "I heard. Good going, Sunny."

"Hee-hee." Lakota chuckles. "That's a cute nickname. Were ever called that before?" She asks Sungival.

"Er- yes." he replies awkwardly. "That's a childhood nickname." _It doesn't suite my disposition very well,_ he thinks to himself.

"So how will we get to Brunson?" Lakota asks as she pulls out a map of Windorin.

"Brunson is located on the northern face of the mountain." Sungival says, pointing out their location on the map. "It's the eastern mountain that sits next to Drambridge, Windorin's capital city."

"Drambridge. That's the city we saw in your dream right?" Lakota asks, pointing to the city on the map, nestled between twin mountains. Sungival purses his lips and raises his eye brows, eyes fixed on the map.

"Yeah." He nods his head.

"Is that where you're from?" Lakota asks, seemingly ignoring how uncomfortable he is. Sungival continues to stare at the map for a few seconds before responding.

"Yeah." He repeats.

"Huh. You didn't tell us this mission was so close to home for you."

"Meh. I've got conflicted feelings about being here." He says, turning his face away from Lakota.

"Hey!" Dorian shouts from the bottom of the tree, arms crossed. "Remember the mission! Where are we going?"

Sungival rapidly shakes his head to get back on focus. "We have to travel westward. Once we reach the northern face of the mountain, we go up a road that winds up a bit and we reach out destination. "

"Great. So . . . will you be able to teleport us there?" Lakota asks.

"Well," Sungival frowns "I've never been to the place before, so I don't know what it looks like; ergo, I cannot teleport to the site."

"Oh I know. But if we find something that flies, you could see through its eyes with your powers" Lakota touches her index fingers with her thumbs and bring them to her eyes, mimicking a pair of spectacles. "And then we can get much closer much faster- provided the bird is flying in that general direction."

"That's. . . "Sungival pauses for a bit. "That's actually a pretty good idea."

"No good" Dorian shouts from the bottom of the tree. "A bird's eye view of this forest won't reveal what's hiding under the trees. There's a chance we can be teleported to a hazard. We don't know what we will go up against at Brunson. We're close enough to walk and make it in a day or so."

"He's got a point." Sungival rubs his chin. "With Dream travel, I tried to pinpoint a location that is both near Brunson and guaranteed to be safe. We won't have that luxury with typical psionic teleport."

"No other choice but to hoof it, huh?" Lakota says with the breath of disappointment. "Ah well. Let's get going then." She climbs down the branches and upon reaching the lowest branch, hops off and falls over twenty feet, landing with perfect form and not so much of a hint of pain from the impact. Sungival shakes his head upon seeing that: "I'll take my own way down."

Within an instant, Sungival's body suddenly disappears from the branches of the tree, accompanied by the sound of a 'pop'; air quickly filling in the space that is suddenly empty. Just as Sungival disappears, he reappears on the ground, alongside Dorian, once again emitting another 'pop'. Dorian, not the least surprised, collects his rope and the trio continues on their way, heading west. As they journey through the brush, Sungival's thoughts drift to his days at the monastery several weeks ago.

The marble floor was impeccably clean. Sungival could see his reflection in it. Within the lobby, the air was cold, the ceiling was high, and the room was long but not wide. Behind him was the entrance; a set of heavy wooden doors thick sturdy and about twice as tall as himself. The walls were made of a grey, drab stone reminiscent of a fortress. The windows in the lobby were tall but thin, too thin for a person to climb through.

On the far wall, there was a large green tapestry hanging with an emblem on it. A circle within a square: an eye within the circle, a four pointed star in the eye in place of the iris and pupil. Surrounding the eye within the circle were five hexagons, two above and three below, and a triangle positioned directly above the eye. This symbol is a representation of psionic power; a power which comes from within the disciplined mind and a strong body. There are those who can accomplish extraordinary feats that defy logic within the realm, those which generate these powers from psionics are considered a minority.

As Sungival was adjusting to the surroundings of the room, having just teleported here from a considerable distance away, he heard the door behind him open. Harsh, blazing cold winds pierced the lobby, snow fluttered in and stung Sungival's face with its frigid touch as a large man in heavy black armor with unkempt hair and grime covered face shambled in. He was breathing heavily and stumbled to the floor, fallen on his hands and knees; he relieved himself of his heavy backpack. Two attendants in this monastery dressed in monastic robes come to his side, but he quickly shoos them away by waving an arm.

"I'm fine." He said in a deep growl. "I'm fine, just a mite tired s'all." The attendants maintained a distance but kept their eyes on him. "Food and drink." He managed between the hefty gasps for air. "Ya'll have a kitchen, right? I got money. I got money." The attendants noded in unison. Standing up with some difficulty the armored man collected his baggage and followed the attendants out of the lobby.

"Did that guy climb the mountains to get here" asked an attendant wiping the floors with a piece of dry cloth and a bucket. He was the only one who didn't rush to the man's side, still on all fours wiping away. He looked at Sungival.

"Looks that way." He responded shrugging.

The two continue to look at each other for a moment when the attendant pronounces: "That's awesome!" and continues to wipe away at the shiny marble floor; drying the moister let in from the opened door. The attendant was short and stocky and had thick mustache. His hair was long, though he was noticeably bald on the top of his crown. It took a few seconds for Sungival to realize the attendant was a dwarf; the short, stocky and hairy race that smelled of earth. Sungival has had some dealings with dwarves in the past.

"Excuse me," he addresses the dwarf. "Are you a psion?" he asks almost hesitantly. Sungival was not used to such a sight.

"You see my robes don't you." The dwarf continued to wipe away the snow that blew in when the door was opened. Monastic Robes meant the individual is either a fulltime staff member of the monastery or an apprentice who is undergoing intense tutelage with the Monasteries' High Psions. Often adventurers would come here to trade information or network with psions, but the few who are willing to pay the steep price of tutelage are also considered a temporary staff member such as this dwarf.

"Ah. It's just that I-"

"Not every day you see a Dwarven Psion." The Dwarf interrupts. "Yeah, we're rare; but us dwarves can't use arcane magic." He turned his attention to Sungival again. "Sure, we have priests, but not every dwarf who's got the talent wants to put on pajamas and worship some pie in the sky or the earth for that matter." He furrowed his brow and shook his head. "Some of us just aren't cut out for that noise." After staring blankly at nothing and letting the thought run full course through his head, he loosened his brow and shrugged his shoulders. "Oh well! Lucky me; psionics are an outlet for cool powers." The dwarf let go of his cloth, and it rose up in the air, over the bucket and suspended with no signs of an implement holding it up. It spread itself out, rolled up and wringed out the water in the cloth. The cloth then returned the dwarves' hands. He grinned at Sungival "That never gets old."

"Where do you hail from?" asked Sungival, sensing a black pit form in his chest. He struggled not to show the pain in his face.

"Why, the Bronze Keep. Ah, missed some over there." The dwarf moved to the other side of the room with his bucket in tow. "We're very knowledgeable on many forms of combat thanks to our open trade policies. I came here to hone my skills. Other dwarven clans are heavily isolationist, so a place like this doesn't appeal to them."

"I see." Sungival tried to suppress the unsettling sensation in his chest. "I'm here to join the apprenticeship program like you; what can you tell me about it?" The dwarf stopped what he was doing and stands.

"Don't go asking me such a half assed question if you're already set to do this." He said, with an annoyed tone. "You've got no chance in hell of being accepted if you're not completely serious about it." Sungival suddenly felt small.

"Ah. . . right." He said meekly. "Stupid question. Sorry."

"Don't roll over so easily you bum!" the dwarf pushed Sungival's shoulder aggressively. "You could at least stand up for yourself." Sungival just looks at him with a frown.

"I'm done picking fights. I just came here for help." Sungival replied sullenly.

"Aren't you a piece of work?" The dwarf sighed. "I'm Duncan Manfighter. What's your name, jelly fish boy?"

"Sungival Lordrin Quade." He replied, surprise by Duncan's quick change in disposition. "I hail from Windorin."

"Sungival? Is that an anagram?"

"Uh, no. I was named that by my father. It means: swordsman of the sun."

"Huh," Duncan strokes his mustache. "Must be a coincidence."

"What is?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about." He waved his hand dismissively, then grabbed Sungival's collar and pulled him closer. "Look punk, I can tell you this much: if you're really serious about this, you'll be accepted and your experience will probably be completely different from mine. Part of the reason it's so expensive to join is because how customized the service offered here can be." Sungival nods earnestly. "I'll tell you where you need to go." He said, releasing Sungival's collar. "Good luck kid"

The admissions office was located within the same building. The monastery is situated within a harsh mountain range on the mainland, where it snows often; it is built along and within a cliff wall. Its exterior resembling a fortress with an expansive architecture what ranges four buildings. It's isolated from civilization and s typically reached through unconventional means. It's unusual for someone to climb their way through the perilous heights to reach the place.

The admissions office was located in the first floor, Sungival waited patiently and anxiously. The patron before him stepped out, a woman with horns, a tail and scars on her face; Sungival is asked to step inside. A thin older woman with auburn hair and bifocals wearing monastic robes sat at a desk surrounded with paperwork. While the others in the lobby were wearing orange robes, hers was a mix of orange and red. Sungival thought the attendants must be cold wearing the robes.

"Mr. Sungival L. Quade. Yes, your reservation for a meeting with the headmaster is today." She reviewed her paper work. "You're on time. Good." She smiled at him. "The headmaster can be quite picky when it comes to applicants who request individual tutelage. Now, just as a reminder, you will deposit your equipment with the attendant standing out the hallway, fill out this sheet here with all your equipment and its functions. You may choose to decline divulging the functions of certain equipment, but that may negatively impact your review." she presented several sheet of paper to Sungival. "Sign this waiver that you will submit to mind reading should the headmaster deem it necessary and sign here saying you understand that a meeting with the headmaster will not guarantee mentoring; and here saying you understand that there are no refunds." Sungival complied and signed on the various lines and paper work, not taking particular care to read all the details.

"Great!" she said with enthusiasm. "Now lastly, wear this amulet that will lower your mental defenses." She produced a neckless with a red gem attached to it. Sungival eyed the neckless before complying. He felt his senses dull and the awareness of being naked surrounds his entire being. His body began to shiver involuntarily. The woman didn't let out any visual cues that she noticed this. "Yes, that's a common reaction, but don't worry; you're safe here." She smiled; Sungival could tell it's a practiced smile, but it did its job and made him feel a bit more at ease.

Sungival stepped outside to meet an escort. An elf with black robes and a hood which style is distinctly different from the attendants he saw earlier. The elf's blonde hair was cut extremely short and had a small red jewel on the center of his forehead; the elf himself is rather tall and had a stoic disposition. He introduced himself as Aranmon Rhuiloth. Sungival swore he heard the name somewhere before, but the Aranmon refused to entertain his questions.

He handed Sungival folded white robes and directed him to a changing room. He instructed him to change and to hand over all his accessories and equipment to him; including his short sword and items of power. Sungival did as he was instructed. Once done, Aranmon carries his equipment to a nearby room which only contains safe boxes. He placed the equipment in the container and explained in his deep voice that the boxes are sealed with both magic wards and psionics, and that his equipment would be safe here. Sungival nodded and appreciates that they are assuring the security of his belongings. Aranmon informed him that the turquoise ring that Sungival was still wearing must also be secured; he had to divest himself of all possessions. After a short pause, Sungival sighed and removed the ring. Everything of his went in the box; the elf presses his hand against the door of the safe box and murmurs, a blue hued glyph manifests when he drew his hand away generating luminescence for a moment before fading. He gestured Sungival to test the lock, who found the door sealed shut.

He was escorted to the third floor, skipping the 2nd floor in the stair well. Directly to the executive floor; they exited the stair well, leading to a hallway with marble floors and red carpet. The wall consisted of the rough grey rock and the hallway was littered with candles and portraits of older men and women. Sungival noticed Aranmon is among the portraits.

"Important people in the Monastery's history." Aranmon said while he led Sungival down the hallway towards to a set of double doors; a pair of stone busts stands each side of the hall right before the doors. "That's his room."

His body began to shiver once again as he approached the doorway. He reflected on what brought him here and thinks to himself: _This is my last shot. My year is almost up and I haven't made an ounce of progress. I keep . . . going in circles. It feels like I've been stuck in the same place, even before I took this year long pilgrimage. It's as if I've buried my grave long ago, and have been waiting in it patiently ever since._

 _There is a gnawing emptiness inside me. Like termites tearing through a house, it's been there for a long time; but only now do I see the damage it has done to my heart. To clear my heart of this darkness, I have to submit to something- anything. I've dug myself into this pit, but it's too deep to climb out alone; I'm so deep in, I can't see anything and I'm running out of hope._

Upon reaching the set of double doors, Aranmon placed his hand on a doorknob and turned it, releasing an audible click.

"It's getting late." Dorian tells the Sungival, as they slowly walk through the brush of the forest- deliberately avoiding the roads. Lakota is several meters ahead of them; the pair comes across a small clearing which Lakota passes through. "We should stop here and rest for the night." Dorian tells Sungival blocking his path with an outstretched arm; he doesn't bother signifying Lakota. The sunlight has almost faded away, and the night is fast approaching.

"Should we start a fire?" asks Sungival.

"No." Dorian replies while digging through a bag on his hip. He produces two stones and knocks them together, which create luminescence. "We'll use these. No smoke to signal any potential hostiles." The glow has a teal hue. Sungival is quite taken with the light; he stares at the stones, thoughts adrift.

"It's a similar color to turquoise." Lakota says, suddenly next to Sungival. He jolts up in surprise. "It's almost the same color as your ring" she leans towards him with her hands behind her back, peering at his turquois ring. "You must really like the thing, I notice you rub it often." He frowns and looks away, embarrassed.

"Lakota, leave him be." Dorian says with disapproval.

"What?" she protests "I wasn't saying anything bad about him. Just saying what I see."

"You're making the guy uncomfortable." He drops the luminescence stones on the ground unceremoniously and produces a second pair. "Sungival will watch over these and spark a new set once their out of light." He hands the stones to Sungival. "Lakota and I should be a good hunting pair so we'll go procure some dinner. We'll do our cooking without flame tonight, but that shouldn't be a problem."

"Sounds good." Lakota nods her head in agreement. "Light duty is all you, Sunny." She squeezes his bicep and heads into the brush, Dorian following after her.

Sungival sits near the stones and surveys the surroundings. Visibility is diminishing and shadows begin to deepen rapidly outside the range of the light. Against the teal light of the stones, the turquoise ring's splendor appears to been drown out- its shimmering color no longer attracting the eye as all of Sungival's features were enveloped in the refuge of the teal stones.


	3. Chapter 2: Everybody Starts Somewhere

Stepping into the wood away from the clearing, Lakota notices that the terrain is much easier to travel than earlier in the day. The brush is thinner and what strew the ground is a mixture of dirt and decomposing leafs from the fall season.

"Lucky us, we a got a near full moon out tonight." Dorian says looking into the sky." Visibility won't be great, but we'll manage." He sticks his hand into a pouch on his waist and pulls out a patch of fur. "This is hare's coat." He says waving it in front of Lakota. "I asked Sungival if there were hares on this island and he confirmed there were. Hares are nocturnal, so that's what we're eating tonight." Lakota wrinkled her brow skepticism.

"How exactly are we cooking this again?" she askes.

"Didn't I say no to worry about that?" he replies sternly.

"Oh . . . yeah." She rubs her forehead with an index finger. "But Dorian, we're all carrying rations on us, right? Maybe we should take this opportunity to rest and relax, there's no need to engage in this type of thing. "

"No." He answers immediately. "Two things:" he holds up two fingers. "First, I want to see your capabilities in action; I haven't seen you operate yet and I want to get a grasp of it. The Pychometabolic psionic discipline is not something I'm overly familiar with. You also said you were trained to be some sort of special type of Psion, correct?"

"Yeah, I was trained to be a specialist called 'Lurk'. It's essentially a Psion designed to be a nimble Thief. Something my father helped Lavignus develop a long time ago."

"Lavignus?" he asks with eyes narrowed,trying to recall where he heard the name before..

"The High Psion that Sungival trained under at the monastery. Master of telepathy"

"Hmm!" A spark of recognition flares in Dorian's eyes. "That really tall old guy. His name is Sungival's in reverse. So you've an old familial connection with that man."

"Yeah." She nods.

"Well, moving on; since we don't have access to any long range weaponry, I'd like to see your rogue skills in action too. Hunting game with mid-range equipment will be a perfect test for that."

"And what is your second reason for this hunt?"

"I hate the taste of dried meat." He smiles "It can't compare to the taste of fresh game. If you can afford luxuries, you take them." He hands her the hare skin "activate your heightened senses and give that a whiff. Then track down similar smells and shoot us a hare with your small cross bow. Simple enough; just make sure you aim at the head or neck, we need the body as undisturbed as possible"

"So you plan to use me like a blood hound, huh?" she gives him a playful smile. He doesn't respond. "You adapt to team mates pretty quickly, Dorian."

"It's what I do for a living." He says as he takes a step back and begins to remove his gauntlets. They fall to the ground with a thud.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"I'll make too much noise with this equipment on. You activate your senses and catch a scent, I'll follow and take the role of support." He digs at the straps holding together his chest armor.

Following his instructions, Lakota closes her eyes and focuses her attention to the center of her chest; a pulse of energy tremors from within the depths of her body and the low rustle of the branches in the wind magnify in their intensity. She opens her eyes and her pupils dilate, her sight growing clearer despite the scarce lighting. Bringing the hare skin to her nose, she inhales deeply several times. She frowns, finding the scent unpleasant but she has it memorized. She pulls at her braided ponytail, and begins to unwrap it, its wavy strands drape over the sides of her face. Pressing the hare skin against the front most strands of her hair, she rubs the furry flesh up and down, as though she were combing her hair with it. Having sufficiently scrubbed her hair with the severed flesh, she takes a whiff on various strands; confirming that it the scent of the game has rubbed off.

From a crouching position, she leans forward and lands on her hands, all four limbs supporting her. She slowly lowers her center of gravity to the earth, and burries her nose into the dirt. Breathing deeply into the earth, the smell of the soil filling her nasal canals, her nose begins to change shape. From its original shape of modest, downward pointing nose with small oval-like nostrils, its tip starts to point upwards, the nostrils grow rounder and more cavernous; it begins to resemble a pig's nose. Swaying her head to and fro as she aggressively breathes in the dirt, she lowers the core of her body low enough to almost touch the ground, then begins to crawl about, moving along the dirt and leafs like a salamander. Dorian has just barely removed the last piece of his armor, still wearing his gambeson, when he notices Lakota scurry away on her own.

"Lakota, wait!" he says in a horse whisper but to no avail, as she's entirely focused on tracking a scent. With great and furious haste, he pulls the gambeson over his head, and stuffs all of his armor, and even his backpack into a two by four sack. The exterior of the sack cannot possibly match the interior given what Dorian has put away within it, as this is a 'Bag of Holding'; within the sack is a pocket dimension the size of a small room. Wearing peasant clothing, a sword on his hip and a coiled rope on the opposite hip, he dashes to catch up to hunting partner.

The scent of hare is abound, traces of various intersecting trails drawing invisible lines throughout the landscape. Dirt twigs and leafs accumulate in her hair as it brushes against the ground, helping her track the pathways of aromas. Dorian, while trying to keep pace with Lakota, produces and dons a pair of green tinted spectacles, granting him clear vision as though it were day; he cuts the bark of trees to mark their path from Sungival's position. It isn't long before Dorian suddenly grabs Lakota's shoulder, stopping her. She looks towards him revealing the warped shape of her nose, catching him off-guard for a moment.

"Our prey is before us, take a look ahead." He says in a low voice, trying ignoring her visage. Prior to undertaking this mission in the monastery, Lakota and Sungival informed him of their psionic capabilities; transforming the shape and properties of her body with a power called 'metamorphosis' was one such power Dorian recalled, though he didn't imagine she would use it in subtle ways like this. He is impressed. He points ahead drawing attention to the brown hare sitting at a base of a tree twenty yards from their position. Lakota could see its nostrils flare and its whiskers twitch from this distance. "Sneak closer and hit it with your small cross bow. I'll stay here."

Lakota nods silently and begins to circle around to her left, remaining on all four limbs and moving on her fingertips. Her eyes remain on the hare as she closes in from within the shadows, positioned toward the hare's blind spot. Though she remained in the shadows, Dorian could see her clearly with his green spectacles, the darkness having no effect on his eyesight; he begins to doubt the use of their hunting technique absent long range weapons. _That's right,_ he thinks to himself, _I recall hearing the hares have an acute sense of smell and being a nocturnal species may render hiding in the shadows worthless_. _Maybe I was too optimistic? We might be eating dried meat tonight after all._

Just as he was finishing his thought, Lakota silently fades from vision in an instant before his eyes within the shadows; Dorian eyes flicker in surprise. Having lost sight of Lakota, he focuses his attention on the hare, which moved slightly, not showing signs of defensiveness. There is a tranquility that surrounds the view of the creature grazing on flora undisturbed, contrasting the suspense of Lakota's impending attack. With sudden panic, the hare turns its head and perks its ears before being pierced by a crossbow bolt; quickly shooting into view from behind a tree was Lakota, pouncing at her game with a drawn blade.

Sprinting on the scene, Dorian find Lakota over the corpse of her prey, blood splattered on her hands and dagger. She steps away from the corpse, allowing him to examine it; the bolt hit through the top of its shoulder and through the chest cavity, as it wasn't a fatal shot, Lakota decapitated the creature with her knife. Dorian nods in approval.

"Not bad." He says holding the hare by the hind legs. "How did you vanish like that earlier?"

"Vanish?" she askes with a tilt of her head.

"When you were stalking the hare from twenty yards away, I saw you slink into the shadows; you were visible to me thanks to these" he taps his green spectacles. "When I was tracking your movements, you just disappeared."

"Oh. That's me assuming shadow form."

"Shadow form?" he repeats. "I assumed that was a type of chameleon-like power, but to vanish like that. I mean, shadow isn't even a substance, it's a contrast created from the absence of light."

"You say that even though there's an entire plane of shadow?"

"Yes, and I've been in that plane in the past. It wouldn't be proper to say that shadow is an actual substance; perhaps another plane of existence, a place maybe, but not a substance"

"True enough; saying that my body becomes a form of light isn't too far from the truth, I was told." She holds up her hands, pinching her thumb and index fingers near one another. "Like a magnet with positive and negative charges, my father told me it's as though I become negative light and my bodily properties become wildly different. So seeing me with the naked eye becomes impossible in most cases. I even lose my bodily scent."

"Negative light?" Dorian rubs his forehead, trying to wrap his head around the idea. "That. . . . sounds like a falsehood. "

"It may very well be." She responds without a flicker of hesitation. "I questioned it immediately as well, my father ultimately admitted Aranmon gave him that explanation, and if it didn't make sense, he was advised that it's best to think of it as becoming a "substitute" for negative light. You remember Aranmon, right?"

"Yeah, he fought Master Jun in an exhibition match at the monastery." He said, momentarily recollecting the scene in his mind. His thoughts turn back to the topic at hand. "A substitute; so it's as though you become the opposite of light, but it's ultimately a falsehood."

"I guess you can say the same of a Lurk; a substitute of a genuine thief." She sizes up Dorian for a quick moment, having been too preoccupied to note his appearance beforehand. "You look nice in those clothes and glasses."

"One of us might as well look good while we hunt." He chuckles while tapping his nose.

"Yeah, I figured changing the shape of my nose would increase its accuracy. I was right." she says with pride, not showing any signs of self-consciousness with her filthy, messy hair and her pig shaped nose.

"It looks good on you." he says without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Practicality is the greatest beauty." Her face flushes.

"Are we done for the night?" she asks looking away.

"You work quickly. Let's try our hand at least one more." The two search for another scent, Dorian brining the hare carcass in tow.

Within an hour, Dorian and Lakota return to their campsite; Dorian, still absent his armor and Lakota, her nose to its original shape and her hair tide to a ponytail, most of the dirt and twigs removed. Sungival turned quickly to see who was approaching, a look of relief comes over him when he sees his companions.

"You've returned, and you've brought back a bounty, I see." Sungival says pleasantly eyeing the two carcasses Dorian is holding.

"That we did." Dorian replies as he hands the carcasses to Lakota. He rummages through his bag of holding and produces his backpack, from it he lays out a number of items: a frying pan, hide gloves, a wooden board, a bottle of cooking oil, dried herbs and a small velvet red pouch. He dons the hide gloves.

"I imagine things went better than expected? I haven't had the need to use a second set of these . . . whatever these stones are called."

"Adir Stones." Dorian says as he steps away from the items he strewed out and took a hare carcass from Lakota. "These stones are found on the main land in the east. A mine was excavated by gnomes, who discovered their properties when evaluating their worth. Tribal priests would attribute luminesce to primal energy left by a deity, to help guide the gnomes in their travel exploring the unknown. At least, that's what the common word was around where I first discovered them."

"So they're naturally like this? They're not infused with magic?" Lakota asks, placing the other hare carcass on the ground.

"Apparently not." Dorian said as he holds the hare corpse by the hind feet and tears the skin off its legs, one at a time; it separates easily. He then pulls down from behind the tail and its entire coat of flesh comes off like a jacket, revealing the bare body resembling a skinny canine. "Within the range of an anti-magic shell, the stones still light."

"Wow!" Sungival eyes light up. "You've managed to test it out to that extent?"

"It was happenstance." Dorian pulls out a knife and pulls on the flesh of the carcass near the sternum while it ay on the wooden board. He makes an incision across, then inserting the knife in the incision, he cuts the skin membrane along the stomach, all the way to the pelvis; the hare's brown entrails are revealed. Centering the body on his the board, he spreads the hind legs apart and cuts between the legs, through the pelvis. "I was . . ." Dorian's voice trails off as he walks away from the light of the Adir stones. "I was part of a group of mercenaries once. We were ambushed when we used these stones; the area of operations was sensitive to flame, so we couldn't use torches or lanterns to light our way. We were incredibly lucky the anti-magic shell had no effect on them." digging his fingers into the top of the chest cavity, he finds the diaphragm and pulls on the membrane, scooping out all of the intestines in one fell swoop, dropping them on the ground. "Needless to say, those who ambushed us are no longer on this plane; they probably counted on darkness overcoming us and were caught unawares." He looks on the entrails on the ground for a moment. "Lakota, can you dig us a small pit to bury these guts in?"

"Sure." She brings out a small hand shovel out of her bag and gets to work. "What's an anti-magic shell spell do again, guys?" she asks as she digs through earth.

"It's a spell that prevents magic and psionic from working in its effective range. It's a very effective spell, very dangerous for those that rely on such powers." He walks pack to his cutting board and severs the feet of the hare. "As you already know, yours truly doesn't rely on such methods."

"Doesn't that mean that the power source of the stones can't be anything divine related then?"

"Not neccsarily." He replies. "Priestly magic comes from a divine source, but that doesn't mean the power itself can be considered 'Divien Quintessence'. Power that is truly divine cannot be stopped by the likes of a typical anti-magic shell."

"Divine Quintessence?" Sungival repeats with a confused look on his face. "What is that?"

"It's power in scale that is equal to a god." Lakota answers, breifly pausing her work on the hole. "Let me illustrate: Say Bishop Markus, the famous preist here in windorin, prays and is given spells; as Dorian mentions, these spells aren't powerful enough to be considered godly or divine in thier scale of power in and of themselves. Afterall, a mage's spells which come from manipulating forces in their enviroment ussually to create similar results, sometimes even more potent. Marcus get's into a fight and lo and behold, an. . . what was it again? Ah! an antimagic shell is making his spells uselss. But say that Bishop Markus gets in a really desperate situation and prays for some extra powerful spells or something lik that. That god on this plane can put the full juice of its divine quintessence behind spells and most typical forms of magical defense just plain don't work that. I guess one could say that if there's enough conentrated divine energy in a spell, it's a proper dinivine spell." Lakota closes on of her eyes and grits her teeth, trying to think of another anology or phrse to explain what she's saying, making gestrues with her hands. "Or . . . another way of putting it is, most spells from a divine source aren't divine themselves, but they can be if the god puts enough effort into it. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, I get it." Sungival answers. "So do you know if the stones have divine power in them."

"I actually don't know."Dorian admits. "These things aren't the most common item around, and the person who I acquired them from wasn't well versed in its actual nature. It could very well be divine, but there's a low probability in that. It's most likely just a reaction from whatever the stones are made of when two samples strike one another. A completely natural phenomenon." Dorian Continues his butchery for a brief moment in silence.

"What was the name of your mercenary group?" Sungival asks.

"Confidential." Dorain replies succinctly as he begins working on the next carcass. "Mercenaries don't like to advertise their identities outside of their group name, save for maybe an alias for their leader. There are exceptions, but only for those on the top of the field and accept certain lines of work."

"I see." Sungival nods his head.

"Should I make one hole big enough for all the entrails?" asks Lakota.

"If you can." Dorian replies, cutting the stomach open of the second carcass. "We want to bury this stuff so we don't smell it as we sleep.

"And to keep predators from wandering over here?" Sungival chimes in.

"Technically speaking yes, but I'm not too concerned about them. I can kill most predators with my bare hands." He says without the slightest hint of sarcasm. He walks over to Lakota and disembowels the second carcass; he peers into the hole that she is digging. "That's good enough. I'll handle the rest." He kicks the remains into the hole.

"What was your profession, Sungival?" Lakota asks, as she sits next to him.

"Profession. . . "He says looking at her blankly. "Yeah, I guess that's what people do, they have professions. Funny, I never really processed things that way." Lakota took this opportunity to get a look over Sungival's features. He was tall and thin, at least six feet in height, standing at a full foot over her. Wavy brown hair that looked somewhat bushy with its bangs covering his forehead, brown eyes, some stubble growing on his jaw line, symmetrical facial features where nothing in particularly stood out; save for the horizontal scar across his left cheek that cut through to his left ear. There's a small chunk of the upper ridge of his left ear that's missing, like a mangy street cat one finds in dank city alleyways. He is a fairly average looking fellow overall, if a bit on the handsome side. His disposition didn't add much to his charms though, as far as she knew him, he is mostly a humorless and self-doubting person, despite the fact he could be considered fledging master of the psionic arts; he was technically more experienced than she was. "I . . ." He begins. "I was trained by the Court Psion of Windorin royal family, the Englots. My Family had been a lineage of knights at the capital for generations, so I managed to catch the eye of the Court Psion, Guido. He trained me alongside his son."

"Oh?" Lakota says genuinely surprised. "Look at that, you've got connections in high places; to think that your essentially aristocracy."

"Well, you can look at it that way if you want. The Quade's, My family that is, are the lowest level of nobility and I don't think I handled my connections wisely."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure . . . let me put it this way." Sungival gets three small rocks and forms a triangle on the dirt. He grabs a twig and props it up in the center, holding it gingerly, like a wand. "When you're born, you start off somewhere. Everybody starts off somewhere." He draws a tiny circle in the dirt with his twig. "But as you grow up, you have to choose where you are going to go. Maybe it's following the family profession, maybe it follows in the footsteps of your mentor, or maybe it's pursuing love." With each of these categories he listed, he taps a corresponding stone with the twig. "Depending on the path you choose, you open up new possibilities-"he drags the twig from the center of the triangle and begins to push one of the stones away from the other two, breaking up his triangle formation and leaving a trail in the dirt. "But you give up opportunities by choosing that route. The old paths fade away with time, and with them, your potential companions: your would-be friends." He pushes the other rocks further away from the center circle with his hand.

"So you're saying you didn't invest your time with the right connections?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure about that yet, but I know the chances of me being Guido's successor are lower than they used to be. I fell I didn't invest enough in him as a person." Lakota glances at the rocks Sungival was fiddling with.

"That rock you decided to go with" she taps the first stone Sungival dragged with the twig. "That was the rock of love. Is that related to that Phyllis person we saw in that dream travel we experienced coming to this island?"

"Maybe." His eyes are set on the same stone. "What about you, Lakota? What do you do?"

"I used to be part of a thieves guild. I'm looking for a career change."

"Your father's Rabb "Tenderloin" Earl, right?" he returns his gaze back to her. "It was his thieves' guild, wasn't it?"

"That's correct." She says with some dissatisfaction in her voice. "My full name is Lakota Earl; my late father was a notorious master thief. His guild lived on after his death, and I had enough of them so I left to the monastery to figure out what to do with myself."

"Is that why you decided to join this mission? For a new start?"

"Lavignus is my connection I want to invest more in, and he pointed me to this operation. Helping out the monastery will open more possibilities, and I was hoping to meet new people."

"Master Lavignus, huh?"

There was a lull in conversation, leaving only the sounds of Dorian chopping away the hind legs of his carcass. He carefully lays a carcass on its back and cuts into the pectorals, once he slices into it deep enough, he can peel the entire front leg off by severing a few membranes, as they lack bone joints. Dorian engages in the butchery with a look of content on his face, finding pleasure in such a simple act.

"Sungival, tell me about Brunson." Dorian says while he starts cutting at the back muscles within the stomach cavity.

"Brunson . . ." Sungival gathers his thoughts. "A mountain town. It's been ruled by the same noble for a long time. Baron Ambert Gaan. He was given the rank of noble after the current queen, Enya Englot, ascended to the throne, around fifty years ago. He replaced the previous noble family, whose head of the house died beforehand and fell into ruin."

"What caused the previous noble's death?" Dorian asks without looking up from his work.

"There's nothing substantial in the records, but it's speculated to be political subterfuge; there was a great battle for succession during Enya's generation that spanned over a decade. She was the youngest of five who left the country at the age of fifteen."

"At least the head of the family was smart enough to send her away." Dorian finishes cutting away the back muscles along the spine. "What else can you tell me about the town?"

"Um. . ." Sungival taps his forehead. "Barone Ambert has a high approval rating among the local townsfolk; they are extremely loyal to him. There's been a Church of the Earth there for longer than the Ambert's reign over the town. Oh, and Ambert has personal connections with the Queen; He's actually a foreigner who came here when the queen ascended the throne. He's regarded as a powerful Arch Mage.

"Ok, but many of those points address Ambert, and not the town itself."

"Ah, true. Well, it's a mining town, and the trade isn't too bad despite its location. It attracts a nice variety of vendors and traffic thanks to the relatively lax regulations and taxes Ambert imposes on the town. I know for a fact they have a smithy and related services. Um . . . let's see, what else?"

"That's good enough for now." He grabs the now limbless carcass remains. "Lakota, can you dig another hole, a bit further away than the previous one?" She nods and walks off to get to work.

The rest of the evening proceeds free of conversation. Once Dorian poured a thin layer of oil on his frying pan and dropped the hare cuts on them. He sprinkled small black stones over the frying pan from his velvet pouch, the stones began to dissipate and heat the oil and meat without a flame. Adding some dried herbs to the mix, Dorian completed a simple hare delicacy, a little raw, just how he liked it. His companions were grateful for the meal, though less enthused over rare cooked meat then he was. Having eaten their fill, the cooking materials are put away and they sleep. Sungival does not sleep soundly.

Come morning, Dorian is the first to rise and after performing some stretches, he begins to don his armor. Something told him the today would be a day of confrontation. His black dragon scale armor was forged and designed by him, made specifically for ease of wear for oneself. In his travels, he had once came across an peculiar set of armor that had the chest piece open like a clam shell; hinges on one side, attaching the chest piece to the back piece, and rope to tie closed the other end. Due to his personal circumstance, he wanted to design a set which would allow him to act independently, as most plate armor took prohibitively long to don when done without assistance. The armor itself had several layers to it; Dorian was unwilling to bypass this basic design structure. The first layer was Gambeson; a thick cloth shirt. As plate armor would always require chain mail to supplement the vulnerability of plates, Dorian is unable to go without it. The second layer is chainmail, which would be downright painful to don if it was over the gambeson. The final layer was the plate mail, with black dragon scales forged into it. They fastened on to the wearer thought a series of belts. Once fully dressed, Dorian donned his spiked gauntlets and began to shadow box, allowing his body to adjust to the added weight.

Among the clanking of Dorian's movements, his companions awoke, and it wasn't long until they were on their way again. As they close into their target, Lakota consults their map once more, and Sungival points out that they are beginning to converge near the main road, as they will be soon directly north to the mountain. Right after pointing this out, they all look south and they notice that they could not see the mountain from where they stood, the trees being too dense and tall to see anything beyond.

"As you can see on the map, we were quite close to Clacton when we dream traveled to the island. We've been avoiding the road that leads from there to Brunson. Though we still have a few miles to go, we might decrease our chances of getting seen by any potential hostiles if we continue westward before taking a turn towards south west. That way we can avoid all roads.

"No." Says Dorian. "At this point, we should start prioritizing speed over stealth. I'm getting a foreboding feeling that we have already taken too long."

"What do you mean?" Sungival asks.

"Just a hunch, but I got a feeling that today we get our hands dirty or it will come back to bite us later."

"I. . . I don't find that reasoning too convincing." Says Sungival. Dorian rubs his chin for a moment before thoughtfully replying.

"Brunson sent out their request for assistance roughly three days ago. This would make it the fourth day since that call. We came into this knowing we couldn't directly teleport into the city, and so they were accounting for that, but time is still of the essence. They will be expecting us today. "

"Well, it makes sense that we have a time window." Lakota chimes in. "Thing could go south any minute." She glances south momentarily. "Hmm. Pun not intended. The sooner we get there, the better."

"And now that we are so close, running into the enemy is guaranteed." Dorian says. "We shouldn't go out of our way for a confrontation, but it isn't the end of the mission if we do make contact."

"Right." Says Sungival. "So let me summarize the situation: Brunson is under a space anchor spell, thus we cannot teleport into its walls, and the reason given is that the city is at risk of being placed under siege. Since the authorities worry that this siege may be a distraction for a larger operation, and they don't know what they are up against, they don't want to expend royal forces to help them. Our dream travel destination was a safe location near Brunson of Windorin, and the dream travel brought us a day's travel away from the town; meaning any closer and we were at risk of being attacked." Sungival wags his finger in front of him, drawing a conclusion. "This means, the enemy is already in the area." He clasps his hands behind his back. "Yes I agree, Dorian. We should prioritize speed."

The party continues on their way. It wasn't long before they finally saw the road side. The forest grows denser and the brush more unfavorable to them the closer the Crater Mountain's base they walk.

"Stealth won't do us much good with Dorian's scale mail clanking about." Lakota says in a horse whisper to her companions.

"Well, even if I wasn't wearing this, Sungival is too clumsy to move silently." Dorian retorts with a smile as Sungival twitches as though his ear is flicked. "My armor will do us wonders in the increasing chance that we make contact." She accepts this answer and rolls ahead, creating distance between herself and the men.

It isn't long before Lakota holds her hand up at the men, signaling to stop. They comply and wait for another signal. She shimmies next to a tree trunk and peeks towards the road ahead, she turns towards her companions with her index finger to her lips, signaling silence. She motions them over with a wave and they comply, trying to move as silently as they can.

"What do you see?" Sungival asks. He strains his eyes but he can't make up anything clear behind the brush and branches.

"There's a convoy of men further up the trail. They have what appear to be wagons with them. They're talking, but I can't hear what they are saying clearly." She says with her eyes closed, trying to focus on the sounds in the distance. "Looks as like we've made first contact."


	4. Chapter 3: We Happened Upon a Tiger

"Let's close the distance," Lakota whispers. "While keeping away from the road. Follow my lead." She deftly moves through the brush making practically no noise, but ceases all movement when she realizes the other two weren't following; Dorian had his arm baring Sungival from advancing after her. He motions her over with his finger.

"We can't follow you and prevent being heard; we can't move as silently as you." He says in a whisper." You scout ahead, and Sungival will connect with his mind link and communicate with you. We'll move on from there. If you get in trouble, he can teleport us over to you in short order." Sungival and Lakota exchange glances, and she gives him a nod.

The nerves in Sungival's body catch fire, and his mind releases a pulse of power. Having the image of Lakota burned into his consciousness, he forms an invisible telepathic net that locks on his target, and wraps its essence over it. He successfully establishes a telepathic contact of Lakota's mind; his consciousness has an anchor within her head.

Within psionic, there are different branches of power called disciplines. Psions may have access to several disciplines at a time but they always have a primary discipline; a main path their powers manifest which they are most robust to. Sungival's expertise is that of telepathy: to influence the minds of others with his own mind. In order to accomplish most telepathic actions on a specific target's mind, the telepath must capture the target with a telepathic contact; they must touch the target with their mind.

Before long, a channel is opened between the two minds, and image appears in Lakota's mind, an image of Sungival with his index finger touching his thumb and his three free fingers outstretched to make an 'ok' symbol. All of this is done in mere seconds, and lacks any visual ques, save for the obvious concentration on Sungival's face.

 _What a silly image_. Lokata chuckles to herself. She returns the favor by sending a similar mental projection of herself mimicking the pose. It's clear she's experienced in this method of communication.

"I've made contact and established a mindlink. Dorian, I'll establish one for you as well, for ease of communication."

"No." he replies with his hand up. "You convey whatever she has to say, I don't want you wasting too much energy on mindlinks. If you burn through your energy, we'll be most put out. I'll trust you to not lie about what she communicates." He turns his attention to Lakota. "Now go, no one is holding you back." She nods, and almost disappears before their eyes into the woods.

Lakota employs a method of silent movement, gingerly placing her weight into each step only after having made contact with the ground at such a speed it would be considered jogging by most. She transitions to moving on all four limbs where a sudden incline develops, giving her stalking an animal like quality as she unconsciously maneuvers through the most shadowed areas. With her enhanced senses, she can see the men through the wood on the road, counting eight of them. They didn't look like uniform soldiers of a town. As she approached, she could see across the road, where the men in the shades of the trees seem to be digging into the earth. Her eyes go to the open air wagon on the road side, it's being pushed off the road and the men are rummaging through the luggage. Curious, she draws closer to the trail, taking the utmost care not to be seen, when she notices one of the men beyond the road toss a human shaped silhouette into the newly dug hole.

"They're highway men." Sungival tells Dorian. "She's broadcasting everything she sees and hears; it appears they've killed some travelers and they're cleaning up their mess,"

"What direction were the travelers coming from? Can she tell?" Dorian asks. Lakota looks at the wagon, sees its tracks are coming from the Brunson. "I see. Brunson might be on complete lock down. They might be turning down entrants, and these men are enjoying the spoils. What a shame." He says without the slightest bit of emotion "Tell her to keep moving, we're skipping this envoy and moving on, you'll teleport us to her location once she's safely past them."

"We're just going to leave these predators there to attack innocent people who come by?" Sungival asks with disbelief in his voice.

"Affirmative." Dorian replies as sure as ever.

Lakota turns her head as she hears an oncoming wagon before the highway men can, and she sees them in distance. She can't make out the rider, but it's a covered wagon.

"Lakota," Sungival communicates telepathically. "Signal them to turn around! Make them stop. They can still get away!"

"I can't." she replies. "I will reveal my position. Can't you make contact and warn them?"

"No. Until I get a clear look at his face, I can't make contact, and even then, it will take at least minute to establish a mindlink. These powers are fast only when we're not counting seconds. By the time you can make out his face, it will be too late."

"What's with that expression?" Dorian asks with his arms crossed.

"There's another wagon that's going to be intercepted by the highway men." Sungival says with concern.

"Really?" a look of satisfaction develops on Dorians face. "This is great. The distraction will make it all the more easier for her to get by unnoticed. Tell her to use this situation to her advantage."

"I've relayed it." Sungival says with the hint of heartbreak in his voice.

"Good!" Dorian beams. Sungival furrows his brow and frowns intensly. Something inside his heart is rebelling against Dorian's Cold directive. Finally, he can take no more.

"I . . . I can't condone this Dorian." Sungival shakes his head petulantly "This is unconscionable. We should help them."

"Unconscionable?" Dorain repeats with skepticism in his voice. "We're here to help Brunson, not stick our neck out some random passerby and expose the group to pointless risk. We have no idea who these highway men have in their midst, or how many are among their ranks. They could even have beasts or monsters in tow, and I know you and Lakota aren't exactly fighters; you guys aren't built for intense brawls where you're heavily outnumbered. Keep you head in the game and focus on the mission."

"But-!" Blood rushes to Sungival face as he searches for a counter argument. Alas, nothing comes to him. He slumps over, feeling dejected. Dorian puts a strong hand on his trapezius muscle and squeezes, causing him to flinch.

"Don't worry about it too much, we can play hero when we get to Brunson." Dorian says without a hint of hostility. By now, the wagon is close enough for Lakota to see the driver clearly- he is wearing green dragon scale armor; traders typically do not go wondering about with armor of that caliber. He is an older man, with a thick, brush like mustache, and skullcap. Judging from the rest of his garments, blue robes over his high quality scale armor, he looks like a cleric: a priest who can wield divine magic and often exhibit competency in battle. Sungival receives this information and relays it to Dorian. "The driver is an experienced looking Cleric? Well now, that might change things." Dorian says contemplatively.

"How so?" Sungival asks, trying to stabilize his distress and bitterness of being shot down.

"Well, a random experienced cleric might be willing to reward us for sticking our neck out to help him. With a reward on the table, it might be a good incentive to risk exposure. Another point is the cleric's affiliation: he might be a citizen of Brunson or maybe a traveler who passed by. Either way, we can gather information from him; all the better if he is affiliated with the town. We can curry additional favor with the town this way; building trust with the client is always good. Lastly, he can assist in the fight, which makes all the difference here. We have to move fast and focus on getting him out of there to protect his horses and goods. It's better for both of us if he keeps those, and with your teleport he won't be able to outrun us if he tries to get clever."

"Outrun us?" Sungival asks, puzzled.

"Yeah." Dorian responds. "If we let the guy go without running into any trouble, there's a chance he can turn and hightail it to save his own skin, and probably think he can get away without conversing with us. We're going to want to speak to him afterwards." Lakota sees the cart stopping in the distance, apparently noticing the rabble on the road attempting to hide itself. Some of the men get close to Lakota in their effort to hide, but show no signs they sense her presence.

"He stopped! He noticed the highwaymen." Sungival relays.

"Get a beat on the cleric. I want you to be able to track him." Dorian says as he dons a black armored helmet. Sungival sits in place and remembers the cleric's features: middle aged, plump face and thick, shaggy mustache. His consciousness makes a telepathic connection with the cleric on his first attempt.

"Contact." Sungival says as he continues to focus on his target. With his psionic energy having successfully captured his target, Sungival alters his energy trace to radiate a ping: a chime that faintly vibrates in his mind and innards. "The radial navigation is set. I can track him as long as I maintain it." He looks at Dorian in front of him. "What's the plan?"

"We wait to see if the cart is surrounded, then we strike. Have Lakota get into position. We teleport in the center of the action: I'm sure you can last in the face of a few blades."

"With so many hostiles, it'll primarily be a fight of brawn." He responds with a frown. "But I'll make due. We'll go on my mark." Lakota witnesses the a band of men suddenly rush out of the side brush and flank the cart, and like clockwork, the men in front of Lakota begin to rush to the cart, weapons drawn.

"No sudden movements, ya hear?" one of the men shout as they close in.

"We got ye surrounded!" another sneers. The cleric is visibly calm and complies. Their outfits are patchworks of various hide armors. They bared their arms, their weapons range from blades to bludgeons. Men on the outer range of the circle drew bows with arrows. They seethed with joyous bloodlust.

"It's time. Grab on!" Sungival says as he draws his short sword and small shield, Dorian stands behind him and wraps his left arm across Sungival's chest, grabbing hold of the right shoulder; his left arm adorned with a small buckler. "I'm cutting the mind link with Lakota the second we get there; I've got to conserve my energy." And with that, the men vanish with a pop.

"Off the wagon! Slowly!" a highway man shouts at the cleric, he has dirt on his worn leather, a black goatee covered chin and his helmet obscured his eyes like a mask; small holes peppered about to accommodate eyesight. His hands are covered in bandages and he is carrying a staff. All the men are wearing something to obscure their face in one way or another, be it handkerchiefs or hoods. As the circle of men began to close in on the cart, Sungival and Dorian appear In between, ceasing the entrapment. The brigands step back in surprise, some of them shouting.

"Oy, oy! What's this now?"

"These bastards are getting in the way of our procurement, they are!"

Sungival heart starts racing as the men gawk at them momentarily, he knows it won't be long before the brigands start rushing them down. He takes a quick tally of the men surrounding them. He counts roughly fifteen men in front of the cart, and he knows there are another four or more behind it. He glances behind him and makes eye contact with the cleric; who watches them, expressionless. _He's got quite the poker face,_ Sungival thinks to himself _._ Hel opens his mouth, ready to demand the men to stand down, but Dorian's thundering black figure passes him and crashes into the crowd, sharp cries of pain ring out while he pelts three men's faces with his spiked knuckled gauntlets with lightning speed in succession; they fall covering their bloody, beaten faces.

A silence permeates the air, save for the anguished moans of the three men on the ground; the men surrounding them ahve mouths are agape in shock. Sungival had seen Dorian's prowess in combat before, but only against those that could effectively defend themselves from it, these targets painted him in a new, brutal light. Dorian's fists are up waiting for the brigands to make their move on him, his breathing is steady, and he stands against the enemy half circle entrapping the cart. The masked man is near Dorian, but he does not signal the same shock as his comrades. This did not escape either Dorian's or Sungival's attention.

 _The masked man is a target worth the price._ Sungival thinks to himself quickly attempts to make psionic contact with the masked man before the action proceeds and is successful _. I knew it. Its taxing for me maintain contact with him, he's got stronger sense of will than Lakota, the Cleric or myself. Dorian was right, we happened upon a tiger._ Sungival heart rate accelerates; now he knows this is guaranteed to be a challenge.

"Well now," the cleric speaks up. "It looks as though we have some help here." No one seemed to notice the words, save for Sungival, who was anxiously waiting for the inevitable rush of blades and bludgeons to fall upon him. "Take care of the gentlemen in the back, will you?" the cleric said, turning towards in the inside of the cart. This peaked Sungival's interest: _wait; is there someone else in the cart besides the cleric?_ The thought raced through his mind a moment before shouts ran out among the crowd, and the enemy offensive begins.

The men closed in on the both of them, but the attackers reached Dorian first, as he was standing right in the face of a number of foes. They swing their weapons with rage, but before some of them can connect, a black gauntlet smashes into them, two the face for one man, another gets an intercepting fist in the arm and a follow up to the body, and a last sweeping strike on a final man's knee. The victims hit the ground, tumble away, and drop to a knee in that order; yet the assault did not cease. Dorian is forced to block the barrage of weapons diving at him. An axe swings to his head and he defends with the buckler on his left arm, repelling the attack, but it's immediately followed up with a stab to the face from another man flanking Dorian. He blocks with his forearm, but a mace swings to the knees, and Dorian raises his leg to block with his shin, where his armor is thicker. _Don't retreat!_ He thinks to himself, gritting his teeth, _keep pushing, show them your power, overwhelm them with fear and destroy their morale!_

"Dorian!" Sungival shouts and starts at his companion, but freezes as he notices men are closing in on him. "Damn! Here they come." He growls as he puts up his guard, and charges at a burly man rushing to his left, who was wielding a pike hammer. Sungival swings and cross his blade against the pike hammer, hitting the man in his left pectoral. The brigand barely let's out a grunt and he pushes Sungival off him. Sungival quickly regains his balances and rolls to the man's left dodging the attacker behind him handling a longsword. "I'm nowhere near as proficient at this as Dorian," He curses under his breath," I can't let myself be surrounded, I won't last."

"Let's return the favor." The pike hammer wielding man bellows, as he crashes his pick axe down on Sungival's head; he guards with his sword in response. The force proving to be too heavy to stop, the hammer makes connects at a slowed velocity, clocking Sungival on his unarmored head. He stumbles back, a hand on his head trying to regain focus, but the assault is relentless as a third attacker with bandages covering his face enters his range equipped with twin daggers. Eyes trained on his carotid artery, the blades make a bee line at Sungival's neck, he is able to block with his shield on his right arm just in time; the attacker swiftly shifts his weight and attacks the torso, landing a shallow stab on Sungival through his leather armor and into his abdomen. Wincing in pain, Sungival swings his shield and strikes the man on the head; bandages hops back in response, displaying little sign of injury from the strike.

 _I've been hit twice already and I've barely done any damage, I've got to turn the tables!_ His adversaries come down upon him at once, the long sword being the first on his left swings wide but Sungival parries in response; immediately afterwards the pike hammer comes swinging down again. Sungival, knowing he has to respect the power behind the blow, blocks with his shield, and this time is successful in protecting himself, but his arm strains under the weight of the blow. _I can't keep taking strikes from this lout,_ he grimaces as the twin daggers assault the exposed rib cage under Sungival's shield arm, the blade cross like a vicious pair of scissors and are about to penetrate the leather armor when Sungival vanishes. The dagger wielding man, charging with all his force, stumbles forward, along with the pike hammer wielding man, the two collide and the large pick hammer wielding man falls on top of the smaller dagger wielding man. Sungival reappears three feet behind where he was once standing, a little to the left, still in his guarding stance as though he was still fending off the pike axe overhead. A quick glance at the pile of men on the floor prompted a quick step over and a swing at the back of the pike hammer man's neck, a fatal wound is torn open. For his eagerness to fell his foe, Sungival is struck by the longsword, who manages to cut into Sungival's left oblique; the hit was hard, blood covering the blade as he drew it back for another swing.

"Oy, get off a me ya fat . . . "the bandaged man wielding daggers cries as he struggled to get out underneath the large man who was bleeding profusely from the neck, making ghastly gargling noise. Seeing his opportunity, Sungival stabs at the bandaged man's face, risking another attack from the longsword. "Oy, oy, oy!" the bandaged man shouts in panic as the blade comes down, but once again Sungival vanishes, and reappears, directly next to the longsword wielding man. Both men jump away from one another in shock.

 _Shoot,_ Sungival curses himself. _I was too impatient._ Both fighters reorient themselves and come at one another again; Sungival charges a stab past the swing of the swordsmen and runs him through, pushing him off his sword with difficulty. A short lull in the action, he looks about and notices the bandaged man is freed and getting into stance, a man breaks off of Dorian's clash and approaches behind him, along with another man from the side of the cart. _This doesn't look good for me. Still plenty of men to take down, even with Dorian's rampage._ He glances at the Cleric who is sitting seemingly undisturbed, watching carefully. _It would really help if he lent us a hand_ , He thought with annoyance. _But I guess he's not under any obligation to, he didn't ask for help_. Sungival curses himself once again, thinking such thought after he raised such uproar earlier in favor of helping the traveler. His back is towards the cart once again as his attackers close in.

The bandaged face man with the daggers was rushed into range again, but Sungival showed the superiority in range with a quick disciplined stab to the chest though his leather armor, penetrating his offense. The bandaged man stops his assault and takes a few steps back, before falling on one knee. _Damn, not deep enough_ , Sungival thinks to himself before a man with a two handed hammer comes from behind the bandaged man and one with an axe to his right. _Prepare for a strike from the axe, he's closer._ Sungival raises his shield towards the axe man, but as soon as they make eye contact, the axe man stops. The hammer wielding fellow draws near and the axe man resumes his swing. _Oh no, their planning to strike concurrently!_ Sungival teleports again, three feet to his left _,_ and just as he reorients himself, an axe lands solidly on his chest, thrown by the axe man, who was waiting for the opportunity of a sudden teleport. Blood is beginning to trickle down Sungival's forehead; the wound he sustained on his head was bleeding, placing his visibility at risk. The hammer man swings in a wide arc, a few feet from Sungival, but his strike whiffs as Sungival steps back, and he yanks the axe in his chest with a pained expression on his face. The axe man pulled out a second axe from his hip. Sungival glances behind him momentarily, expecting another attacker to flank him, but the men behind him seem to be in suspended animation; they are frozen in a stance of what appears to be the start of a run. _This . . . looks like the work of magic;_ he glances at the cleric once more, who is pointing in the direction of the men directly behind Sungival. Sungival turns his attention to the men in front of him, who are joined by the bandaged man once again, with the Axe man's attention turned to the cleric.

"Come at me!" Sungival shouts at the men as he charges at the hammer wielder. The brigand lifts the hammer overhead for a crushing blow, but Sungival squeezes past, his blade cuts under the man's armpit, spraying a torrent of blood.

"Argh! My Artery!" he screams as he falls over. "He got my artery!" The daggers swing shortly after, making shallow cuts in the armor as Sungival maneuvers and keeps them at bay, teleporting again, in between the bandaged man and the axe man; The axe swings down, his attention torn away from the cleric, makes a poorly prepared strike at Sungival, but the shield intercepts easily, and the axe hand is severed in retaliation.

"Me arm! Oh hell, me arm!" he cries out. Sungival breathes heavily and pushes the distracting cries out of his mind as the daggers bite at him for a final time, nicking his arm. Sungival retaliates with a strike to the head with the hilt from his sword, this time it hits hard enough to drop the bandaged man. Sungival steps back from the carnage to gathers his breath for the next volley. _These bastards are stronger than the run of the mill bandits._

Men are already moving to encircle him, now some of them putting their attention on the Cleric, who remains as calm as ever. Hearing the clashing of metal and men falling into his peripheral vision, Sungival takes a quick glance at the direction of Dorian, who is obscured by the crowd surrounding him. _Is he doing alright?_ Sungival thought worriedly to himself. _I'm too preoccupied to-_ his thought disbursed by the hurtling and tumbling of bandits, revealing Dorian working himself into frenzy as his opponents are primarily focusing on unsuccessfully defending themselves from the entourage of crushing punches; Dorian darting about, not focusing on a single target for long. Whether it is a sturdy body blow, or a blindingly swift hook to the face, it is as though the men were struck with a ferocious battering ram; they are helpless against the might of his spiked gauntlets. Sungival's strikes with a sword could not compare; this is what he thought as roots shot out of the ground and entangled Dorian's legs in an unnatural and uncanny sight.

"Dammit. Dorian!" Sungival cries out and started towards his companion but a voice makes him hold fast.

"Wait! Not another step young man or you'll be vulnerable." shouts the cleric behind him. "You are in the protection of the Wyvern, you were so preoccupied with your friend you haven't even noticed."

Sungival looks around, momentarily forgetting Dorian, and he is indeed within what appeared to be a dome of light fog. The surrounding men backed away, some of them, touching the fog were paralyzed in suspended animation. One such man was next to Sungival, stuck in the position of a wind up for a swing. It would seem that his lack of focus on his own affairs could have cost him greatly.

"What is this? Another spell?" Sungival asked, eyeing the paralyzed man beside him

"Wyvern Watch. All who enter this fog bear the risk of being paralyzed by the fog wyvern; though this shape only manifests to those outside of its protection. To us, it simply appears as fog. Now:" The cleric hops out of the cart steps a few paces away from the cart. He draws out a white wand, and pointing it at his cart behind him, he says the command word "Item." The cart is enveloped in a white light, and its figure shrinks to a miniscule size, to where only a thin small card remains, the size of a common playing card.

The cleric picks it up, and Sungival notices a man revealed behind the cart; on the ground near him where the bodies of four bandits, all lay silent. The man adorned in a brand of banded mail Sungival had never laid eyes on before. It is red, with black treads woven in between the plates. The shoulder guards are loosely attached and flapped with sudden movements. The helmet has a crest atop of it, with a neck guard that extended from the sides of helmet, like a half a lamp shade. Covering the man's face was a curious looking metal mask, with a neck guard protruding underneath the mask protecting the throat. The mask extends from the nose and under the eyes, an expression of an angry face was carved into it, the man's eyes were exposed clearly. He is wielding a thin curved sword that Sungival did not recognize. Their eyes meet, and Sungival thinks he sees a flash of recognition in them.

"Come now," the Cleric addresses the man in banded mail. "It's time for us to bid this encounter farewell. If we remain, the result will be bloodier, and I loathe such needless violence. We will escape with these horses under the wyvern's protection; we must hurry before the Druid directs his attention to us." The man in splint armor quickly jogs to the Clerics side, and glanced at Sungival once more; now it was Sungival who thought the man looked familiar.

"Will he be coming with us? He helped is." The armored man addresses the cleric. Even his voice is familiar, but in this heated moment, Sungival could not pin down who it belonged to.

"We certainly have room on the horses." The cleric answers, putting away the card he picked up earlier. "But I don' think our savior here will want to abandon his two companions." This remark leaves an imprint in Sungival's appraisal of this man. Sungival hasn't seen or heard Lakota since he teleported here, yet this man managed to spot her when surrounded by all this danger. "It doesn't seem as though he has any more support." The cleric looks at Sungival to read his expression, which betrays him.

"Yes." Sungival answers. "You should make off, and we can escape on our own. My companions can't travel quickly without my help. Thank you for the assistance."

"So be it." The cleric responds while walking towards Sungival, and he begins muttering under his breath. He produces a coin and a mirror, laying them atop of one another in his hands and placing a free hand on Sungival's shoulder. A feint glow emanated from Sungival's body, but he feels nothing.

"This is a gift to help you drag out your friends in this trouble. That druid with his eyes obscured should not be underestimated, and these numbers are clearly taking its toll on you and your small friend scuffling on the outskirts of the road." With that comment, concern covered Sungival's brow: _T_ _hat's right,_ he thinks to himself, _I have no idea how Lakota is handling herself._

"Announce your departure to your allies and act accordingly. Assuming you are capable, we welcome your company if you can catch up. My name is Jeffery Farold, look me up." And with that, the Cleric hops on a horse and turns it around to go back the way he came. His armored friend does the same, but turns to Sungival once more and speaks.

"Fight well Sungival, Show me how much you've grown. I hope this will not be the end of you." Without a second of pause, the two men ride off, out of the mist and begin to shrink down the road. Sungival could guess who the man in banded mail was now, but he had no time to think on such a matter, he turned around to see how Dorian was faring.

Dorian's leg is still entrapped in the grasp of the root up to his thigh; and the man with the obscured eyes, the druid as Jeffery had called him, was moving to and fro, swinging his staff wildly. Dorian focused on defending himself from the strikes; somewhere along the fight he lost his helmet. On his exposed hair there are bits of snow, his skin seems unnaturally pale, as though he was dumped in a pool of ice water and all the warmth fled his face. The other men gave them space, and were throwing knives and rocks at Dorian, who was preoccupied with the staff.

"Lakota! We're leaving! Get to Dorian, now!" Sungival cries and fixes his gaze on the Druid, and strikes with a telepathic attack on his target. Having established contact earlier, and maintaining it, Sungival fires an invisible blast of psionic energy to the vulnerable Druid's mind, and inflames his mind with an unnatural, debilitating rage. Struggling to maintain control of his senses, the Druid ceases his attack and clasps his throbbing head with one hand, holding his staff up as a guard with the other.

Now was Sungival's chance. He teleports beside Dorian, out of the range of the protective wyvern fog; he bets on the men surrounding Dorian being momentarily dumbfounded by the Druid's sudden halt. Dorian takes advantage of the moment to rip through the grasp of the branch grasping his leg by the might of his grip and a twist of his body. Sungival wraps his arm around Dorian's back and it's freezing to the touch through his gloves, almost to the point of burning his flesh. He grimaces, but does not let go. At that moment, an arm wrapped around Sungival's back, he turns to find a disheveled, bloodied Lakota who emerged out of his shadow; arrows protrude out of her shoulder, leg and hip.

The druid suddenly regains his composure and without a wasted movement, lifts his staff and rams its end at Sungival's face; the speed is blindingly fast, well beyond Sungival's ability to defend. Dorian's hand blocks the blow and with a fierce counter thrust, pushes the druid back with the very same hand. Sungival wastes no time teleporting his companions and himself out of the immediate area before the rest of the men take the opportunity to savagely tear at them.

The trio reappears a mile back from where they came. Sungival and Lakota sit down, breathing heavily, while Dorian quickly beings to remove his armor.

"Here." Lakota throws his helmet at Dorian's feet. "I managed to pick that up when you tossed it off. Damn thing is bloody cold" She turns her attention to the arrows in her body, but Dorian starts at her.

"Wait! Don't be so quick to disturb those wounds, its better if someone other than you removes them." She silently obeys; it was out of habit that she moved to tend to her own wounds, but she knew his advice was sound. "Sungival-"he turns to face him, stripping off the last of his armor, but he stops, taking in the sight of the Sungival's battered figure. Glancing back at Lakota, who sat patiently on the ground, Dorian nods his head with a thoughtful expression. "My apologies, this is my fault. I should not have thrown you two in to such a volatile encounter; those men were trained warriors, not random brigands. Furthermore, there was someone who was quite dangerous, as I initially feared. I was too greedy"

"No, I'm glad we defended those two." Sungival replies with a smile. "They invited us to meet with them, and I still have the contact on the cleric, along with the radial navigation point so I can pinpoint his exact location. I can just ask him for a visual and we can meet up with them."

"That's what I like to hear!" Dorian points and Sungival with a grin. "Then do that, and quick, we went in opposite directions, so we don't know which of us hostiles are pursuing, if any. Either way, we can make use of the cleric and the extra sword."

Having maintained his contact on Jeffery, Sungival opens a mind link for a two way communication channel between Jeffry and himself. Be it messages or images, the curious power of psionic mind link allows communication that transcends language; Communication is transferred and received in an understandable and digestible format automatically by both parties despite any potential language barriers. Perhaps it is because the mind link accesses portions of the mind that is responsible for the interpretations of the senses and speech that the channel allows a seamless dialogue between parties with differing methods of speech.

"Jeffery Farold" Sungival transmits "This is Sungival Lordain Quade, contacting you through mind link. " Sungival is keeping track of Jeffery's movements remotely, senses him slowing to a stop. A response comes through. "You know, the guy who helped your wagon escape that attack."

"Hello? Am I using this thing right? Can you hear me? I've never done this before."

"I hear you loud and clear," He answers. "It's quite easy to use this once you get used to it. We have managed to escape form the enemy, and we would like to take up your offer to meet."

"And just how did you escape?" asked Jeffery. Sungival tells him. "Ah, I see. You're quite a mobile fellow, aren't you? A very useful skill. Since you are in my head, can you not simply teleport where I am?"

"I can technically do that, not because of the contact I have on you, or as you put it 'because I'm in your head' but due to the ping on you- a radial navigation- eh, I'm rambling about unimportant matters. Yes, I can, but it bears some risk. It's better to have you expect us. May we rendezvous?"

"A moment" Jeffery transmits. There's a pause, then a response comes in. "My companion has a test for you. To prove your identity, since I cannot know if you are who you say you are through this 'mind talk' we are having. Even if you can teleport to us without our consent, we will be expecting an enemy ambush and not make things simple for you.

"Very well, a fair request; ask away."

"Name the members of your nuclear family." Upon hearing this, Sungival sighs, but complies as he agreed. "I am the youngest son of Norden and Nadia Quade. My two elder brothers are Faltzer and Waldreck." Another pause.

"Well done. There is one more question for you to answer. Describe the Insignia of the Englot Royal Family, and explain its symbolism."

"Sungival." Dorian interjects. "Are you talking to him?" From Dorian's and Lakota point of view, Sungival was simply standing silently with his back to them. Sungival holds up a finger and nods.

"The Royal insignia of the Englots was design by the Late King, Ingvar Englot, so it's a relatively recent royal insignia, replacing the previous one of the of the Calder Family. It's a sun over an ocean with soft and hard currents; with seven streams of light beaming out from the sun. The sun itself represents the Englot family, the streams of light are seven virtues that the family must embody: Faith, Hope, Charity, Fortitude, Justice, Prudence, and Temperance. The ocean represents the populace and the world, for water is the source of life; the soft and hard currents reflect the state of man, peace and war. The reflection of the suns brilliance represents the grace that the family bestows upon the world of man, which they must shine the way for the rest of the world." Sungival feels a pang of emotion in his chest. "It's . . . it's a beautiful thing, that symbol. My parents named me in honor of it." There is a moment of silence before Jeffery responds.

"A heartfelt and brilliant answer. You are indeed my companion's old friend. Come, we will welcome you with open arms." Sungival thanks Jeffery and ends their talk, informing the others that they are ready to go. The three huddle together once more, but instead of a teleport, Sungival party vanishes for in instance and reappears in place, it happens so quickly that if one were to blink, they would miss it.

"What's wrong Sungival?" Dorian asks.

"That was a slip up" He responds with a sullen tone. "As I mentioned; Psionic is more volatile than Magic, even a master can drop its execution. Maybe I'm a little tired from the fight earlier. Let's try this once more."

On his second attempt he is successful, appearing before Jeffery and his companion on the road. There were no signs of them being pursued, and the wagon was attached to the horses once again, in preparation for Sungival's company.

"Welcome friends." Jeffery says warmly. It would appear that the violent encounter he experienced earlier had not rattled his nerves in the slightest, and he bore no wounds from the battle. Dorian looked him over, alongside his companion in the splint mail; he recognized the emblem on top of his helmet. It was the symbol of Waukeen, Goddess of trade. _This is no doubt a shrewd man, I should be careful to not to offend his sensibilities._ He thinks to himself before returning the greeting.

"Well met." Dorian says with a nod, stepping away from Sungival. "I am Dorian Lastov. These are my companions Sungival Quade and Lakota Earl. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."

"Thank you for your help." Jeffery replies. "We were fortunate for your intervention, escaping them would have been far costlier if it wasn't for you. I am Jeffery Farold; Cleric of the Wakeen Order, advocate of trade. I will allow my companion to introduce himself." The man in the splint armor removes his mask and helmet, revealing a strong masculine face with short black hair, a square dimple chin, fierce thick eyebrows and shining yellow eyes.

"I am Henry Englot," He says with enthusiasm. "Apprentice of Jeffery Farold. Thank you for your help." He turns gaze to meet Sungival's. "You look a lot stronger than before, Sungival."

"I can say the same to you, my prince." Sungival replies with a weary smile.


	5. Chapter 4: You're In Full Bloom

Sungival isn't sure how to interpret the emotions he feels while standing in front of Henry; a very familiar face he recognized since childhood. Sungival is privileged to have connections to royalty at a young age, and is one of the few to build a lasting relationship with no ulterior motives (well, he used to tell himself that anyway). At least not when it came to Henry; first born son of prince Glenn Englot, next in line for the throne after the current reigning Queen Enya Englot. Henry was always a man surrounded by subjects and caretakers, groomed to be the successor to the throne and thus heavily protected and sheltered. To think the he would be found in such a dangerous situation without an entourage of bodyguards was unthinkable a year ago. But Sungival reminds himself that many things have changed for him in the past year, and it wouldn't be such a stretch to imagine others going through similar ordeals. _The world doesn't revolving around you Sunny_ , He thinks to himself with a hint of annoyance. _Just because you're not around doesn't mean people are going to stay in suspended animation_. He consciously rubs the turquoise ring on his finger with his thumb and the thought passes through his mind.

"Well." Henry says with a smile. "It's been an arduous journey to get where I am today. Let's get you and your companions into the wagon, we'll continue along the road while Jeffery tends to your wounds."

Jeffery climbs over the back of the riding seat of the wagon and enters its interior; Henry helps Lakota and Sungival step inside. Dorian sits next to Henry, his large frame and long legs forcing Henry to scoot over abruptly.

"Pardon me." Dorian says after planting himself in the rider's seat, their eyes meet. "I like your armor. Don't see foreign banded mail like that too often." He looks toward the curved sword placed beside Henry. "And you're packing a Katana. A fan of Bushido, huh?"

"Oh, yes, very much so. Thank you." Henry says, genuinely pleased to be complimented but not quite sure what to follow up with. Henry saw some of Dorian's clash with the brigands earlier, where Dorian proved himself adept in combat where the odds were heavily against his favor. Now that he was sitting right next to Henry, he can sense the power Dorian carries himself with. It was clear to Henry that any compliment he would give Dorian would come across as trite given the obvious difference in skill and experience. Henry decides he should take the compliment and leave it at that- but he can't resist.

"You were quite impressive out there, jumping into the crowd like that and knocking them about with your fists." Henry says despite himself. He makes light punching gestures while holding the reigns of the horses.

"Hmm." Dorian nods and keeps his eyes on the road. There is silence afterwards as the rest of the crew in the interior of the wagon address Lakota and Sungival's wounds.

 _I see_ , Henry thinks to himself, _It's true that most warriors are less conversational than I. Match his flow Henry, if he talks less, you talk less. Stoic! Be stoic!_ The smile fades off Henry's face as he tries to match Dorian's disposition and keeps his is attention on the road.

Inside the wagon, there is no cargo save for a few blankets. Upon a cursory glance, it is clear to Sungival that the vehicle only served as a portable shelter, the light load would explain why the pair only utilized two horses, four being the norm for a wagon of this size. _So Henry sleeps in this rickety old lump of wood on wheels?_ Sungival feels the texture of the blankets. _Good quality wool at least. Wait, Didn't Henry just say he was Jeffery's apprentice? He's not wearing Cleric garbs, and the only symbol on his is on that crest on his goofy looking helmet._ Sungival looks behind him and find that Henry had donned his helmet once again.

"Magic and medicine." Jeffery says as he rifles through a nondescript sack. "I deal in both, so rest easy, your wounds will be dealt with properly. As with all tasks of great importance, there is an order to things." He pulls out a leather satchel, at least twice the size of the sack. Sungival suddenly can't help but feel self-conscious about his backpack he carriers around. _Since when does ever guy and his dog on the road have a bag of holding_ , he wondered.

Jeffery opens the leather satchel bag, revealing a number of what Sungival assumed to be medical related equipment. Out of the bag, Jeffery extracts a scalpel, a pair of shears, bandage and gauze, a brown pouch and a saucer The forceps prongs were long and narrow; their edges pointed making them resemble scissors. He pours out dull yellow sand unto his hands and vigorously rubs them together, the sand particles eventually falling into the saucer. He neatly pours the sand on the saucer back into the pouch.

"Sanitary sand" Jeffery explains "Keeps my hands nice and clean." He turns his attention to Lakota. "I will remove the arrows from your body to start. I don't carry anesthetic but your a tough girl, you can take it." She nods. He tells her to lay down on a blanket, and gathers a bundle of them and places them behind him. He tells Sungival to hold her steady around the shoulder. "Now, I know you're not going to like this, but I need to cut your leather garments. I can't operate safely with them in the way."

"Not a problem." She responds. "Cut my garments and patch me up."

"I will to have to cut into your skin too" Jeffery eyes the shears in his hands. "Not with these scissors, mind you. I'll be using something more delicate."

"Yeah, this isn't the first time I've been stuck with arrows. Let's get this over with."

"You don't want to try cutting the wooden shaft?" Sungival asks, genuinely curious. "If you break off the staffs from the arrows, she should be able to remove her garments and leave them intact."

"It's not too unusual for arrow heads to dislodge from the shaft once they hit a target." Lakota answers him, while Jeffery begins to cut the leather shirt. "When I was struck with arrows in the past, I would yank out the shaft and then dig out the head embedded in my flesh. It's surprisingly difficult to fish out once its separated, but you don't have better alternatives without tools and assistance. Can't fix a wound with magic with the arrowhead still in ya'.

"So its easier to take out the arrow if you don't disturb the shaft? Can't believe I've been on the road so long and I didn't know that." Sungival watches Jeffery make a few more cuts into the leather shirt, each slice made with the shears taking considerable effort from Jeffery, when another question comes to his mind.

"Lakota, can't you push out foreign object from your wounds with your metamorphosis?

"No. I don't have that much minute control over my body, and injuries are difficult to manipulate with that science. I can't heal or conceal injuries; they will manifest in one way or another regardless of what form I take."

"Even if you turn yourself into a rock?"

"Even if I turn myself into a rock."

"I don't know what you two are talking about." Jeffery says wiping his brow "but I'm done cutting the garments. I ask for silence and attention for the next sequence." He folds over the cuts of leather and uses a bobby pin to keep them away from the wound. He then grabs his scalpel and gently surveys the surface trauma of the wound. The flesh surrounding the shaft is bruised, red and protruding. He cuts into the wound with the scalpel, gently pushing it along the shaft as a guide for its depth. The wound bleeds, yet Lakota doesn't make a sound. She calmly watches the blade cut into her skin. He inserts a finger into the wound and feels for arrow head. Sungival recoils lightly from the sight. " I've got it." Jeffery says. He makes two additional incisions on the other side of the shaft with a similar method to gauge its depth, and then inserts the forceps. "I'm going to twist it on its way out. Sungival, hold her steady!" Clasping on to the arrowhead embedded in flesh, Jeffery grabs the forceps with both hands and pulls with a turn of the wrist to assist its exit. After some strain, Jeffery manages to pull the foreign object out of the shoulder; the struggle ends with him falling over onto a blanket he had positioned earlier.

"It struck bone. " he says sitting up and examining the arrowhead; it resembles a metal blade shaped like a spade. "Look here, the binding of the arrowhead and the shaft. It's loose, the shaft is designed to leave the arrowhead in the body. simple yet brutal. Without immediate attention, even adventurers like yourselves would suffer serious repercussions. Let's get you out of that outfit so we can dress the wound for now"

"Why would that arrow be so dangerous? Is it poisoned?" Sungival asks.

"No, but wounds get sick if left alone, especially if some piece of metal is lodged in there." He replies while Lakota's removes her leather armor and shirt. "You must be awfully pampered if you don't understand these things. Am I correct to assume you've relied on magic to get where you are?" Sungival only frowns in response, confirming Jeffery's suspicions. "Henry was the same when we met. You're a noble's kid, aren't you?"

"Sungival knows a lot of things in general though." Lakota says, now in her undergarment, revealing her small framed torso. Under the bulk of her armor, Sungival could not ascertain the finer details of her physique, but now it was bare before him. Boyish, is the word that came to mind. Her body is rectangular, lacking in curves. Her chest is very modest. Overall, she resembled a tall halfling. It is clear that Lakota has several strikes to the torso, a shallow stab in her upper back and a large, yet shallow cut across the chest, and a bloody bruise on her rib cage below her left pectoral. She has some noticeable circular scars on her upper back, he imagined them to be former arrow wounds. "Like anatomy." She continues. "He knows where all the vulnerable parts of a person's body are, and even things like the proper names of bones. I didn't even know the collarbone is actually called 'the clavicle'."

"I saw him put that knowledge to use as he struck a man's axillary artery." Jeffery answers dispassionately.

"Really? Not bad, aristocrat." She compliments Sungival, but from his expression she sees he doesn't take it well. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Sungival says. "You're just coming off as patronizing is all."

"Oh. uh- sorry." she says with embarrassment.

"The two of you haven't been working very long together, have you?" Jeffery says while he applies bandage and gauze to Lakota's shoulder.

"That obvious, huh?" replies Lakota.

"Not to worry." Jeffery reassures her. "Sungival seems like a self conscious fellow who doesn't want to appear as though he can't take a good jostling every now and then. Even if he can't help but sulk after every teasing." True to form, Sungival can't hide his embarrassment, being so easily read. "Put a hand on her hips." Jeffery instructs Sungival, "We're removing the second arrow."

"Ah, yes." Sungival says snapped out of his sulking mood. Cutting through the pants are a considerably easier task than the previous garments, and he sees the arrow has clearly struck at the upper most region of her right thigh. Directly below the hip."

"Two arrows in the upper right leg." Jeffery shakes his head. "Not good. You weren't limping when you climbed in the wagon. High pain tolerance, huh?"

"I've been well trained." She replies. "But the pain is actually quite terrible. Maybe I shouldn't be sharing this, but I actually was limping, I adjust my gait to mask it is all."

"Perception is persuasive." He replies. In a similar fashion to the shoulder wound, Jeffery cuts into the leg with his scalpel, and after fishing his finger into the wound to find the tip, uses a pair of tongs to pull the arrow out. The arrow lodged in the center of the quadriceps proves more difficult, as Jeffery uses his finger to press upon the head and remove the arrow in a particular angle. When fishing though her flesh with this final wound, Lakota's neck muscles and continuance show signs of physical strain, and sweat covers her brow. Once removed, Jeffery examines the head, and points out its peculiar shape, having a curve like a fish hook. "This last arrow has been warped by muscle contractions. Perhaps a symptom of your movement while it was lodged in your leg." Both Sungival and Lakota look at the arrowhead in astonishment.

"Now I'm really glad I didn't try to remove that on my own." She says with an air of exhaustion.

"Couldn't have said it better myself." Sungival says. "It's like you said, magic or psionic healing won't pull that out of your body." Jeffery dresses the wound and begins to clean his hands with a wet rag, as they are covered in blood. Sungival glances at Lakota, whose breathing is measured in an attempt to calm herself. "Why were you trained to endure such pain?" he asks.

"It's a marketable skill to have." She answers readily.

"What do you mean by that?" She looks at him for a bit before responding.

"Have you done any freelance work making use of your psionic powers?"

"Uh, yes. Yes I have." He says after a short pause, not immediately understanding what she meant.

"You ever tell the client you can do things like read minds and the like?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because. . . the jobs that I took didn't really make use of those powers. My skill set isn't very attractive on solo operations and . . . that's the only time I've handled freelance work."

"In other words, you didn't really know what you were doing."

"Correct. I paid for that inexperience quite a bit." He says, running his hand across the scar on his cheek. "When you pick fights with a faction, completion of a job isn't the end of the feud. The enemy remembers, and they make sure you know that."

"Huh. That sounds like an interesting tale." She says with a light of curiosity in her eyes.

"Not one I'm interested in telling. At least not now." he answers while shaking his head, looking disturbed by the thought.

"Well, my trade is that of a thief." Lakota drives the conversation back to topic. "I steal things and infiltrate places, and the information trade is a vital part of my profession. Those that gather information are potential targets, so telling a client 'I'm resistant to torture' makes them want to hire me. See? Marketable." She suddenly frown and hastily adds. "Not that torture is an effective means of information extraction- a lot of people think it is, but that's a myth."

"So . . . is it really all that useful?" Sungival asks with skepticism.

"Great for discipline and getting cut on a doctor's operating table, as you just saw." She says with a dry smile. Sungival nods, accepting the answer.

"All right Sungival, Let's look at your injuries. Take you armor off."

Sungival sustained five wounds, a blunt strike to the head that was still bleeding, a shallow stab in the abdomen, a large cut in his oblique, an axe wound on his right pectoral, and a minor cut on his arm. Notable on his physique is a terrible scar that runs across his torso diagonally, and a thick scar on his back, where a knife was once dug in. When questioned about them, he answers that he sustained those injuries in the past, and they do not threaten his health.

"Wow." Lakota remarks looking at his fresh wounds "They really roughed you up. Though I guess I'm not much better" She reviews the scar across his chest. "Is that a souvenir from your freelance days?"

"Charming, no?" Sungival says sarcastically.

"You're going to be left with more than scars if we don't treat you soon" Jeffery says in a grave tone. "You're blessed that our bodies become more durable with the honing of our soul, these injuries would kill a lesser man." There is a beat of silence from Lakota and Sungival, they look at each other for any sign of recognition of what Jeffery is talking about.

"Honing of our soul? What does that mean?" Sungival asks.

"I'm saying your body is more durable than the average man. That cut in your oblique would have torn into a weaker man's inwards, but you're settling for serious muscular damage instead" Sungival grimaces at the cut. "Don't worry," Jeffery assures him. "Magic and medicinal care will prevent permanent damage. You'll end up with a scar however. Not a bad trade."

"What does a strong body have to do with our souls though?" Lakota asks, then narrowing her eye and her twisting the shape of her lips coarsely, she pauses a moment. "Wait, what is a soul?" She glances at Suingival, who shrugs.

"It's not important." Jeffery closes the topic. "Do either of you have anything like potions or a wand of cure?"

"We've got several among the three of us." Lakota responds. "But we want to ration their use. We expect to run into more conflicts with the enemy."

"The enemy, you say." he repeats thoughtfully. He shouts towards wagon exterior: "And what of you, Mr. Lastov? Do you need any medical attention."

"I'm fine." Dorian responds with a raise of his arm, keeping his eyes on the road. He is rubbing crumpled, dried red herb leaves on his chest under his shirt with his other hand.

"Very well, that leaves more magic for you two." He continues, addressing Lakota and Sungival. " I have one moderately strong healing spell and a set of weaker ones. Before I begin, I ask that you both use a magic healing item of your own to lighten my burden."

"Yeah, that sounds fair." Sungival says nodding his head. He turns and begins to sort through his backpack, Lakota goes through her bag of holding. They both pull out potions at the same time, albeit very different looking concoctions. Lakota's bottle has a pyramid like base, leading to a slim cylindrical shaft to its opening; it resembled a stereotypical alchemy beaker. Its a faint pink looking color, with small bubbles lining the bottle. Sungival's bottle is a thick cylindrical bottle commonly used to contain milk, its contents are a smokey gray looking fluid with visible clumps in it. Jeffery cannot conceal his disgust upon seeing such an item, and neither can Sungival for the matter. "Hmmmmm." He utters with an exaggerated frown on his face. "I forgot how unappetizing this stuff looks."

"I've . . . never seen such a- . . . what is that?" Jeffery asks, almost horrified.

"Ah this . . this is a psionic potion. No magic involved in this sucker." He responds, trying to force enthusiasm out of himself. He looks at the bottle with all the enthusiasm one could imagine (none). He glances at Lakota, who's expression is more reserved, yet showing signs of concern. Sungival holds the bottle with one hand from the top and wags it before Lakota. "The monastery gave it to me for free. They said its strawberry flavor." Her countenance persist in its concern.

"You know what that's made of right?" She asks incredulously. "There's a very good reason why psionic consumables are not prevalent and the masters at the monastery are disgusting for creating such a thing. Some items are simply not meant to be." Sungival eyes the bottle again, then darts his gaze at Lakota and then back to the bottle. He raises his index finger and opens his mouth in preparation for a rebuttal- only to quickly uncork the bottle and attempt to down the drink as quickly as possible. Halfway through he pulls the bottle away form his mouth, coughing and hacking. He swallows and tastes his mouth briefly, turns back to his bottle and finishing the brew. Lakota and Jeffery watch the entire affair in silence.

"That . . ." Sungival swallows."That didn't taste like strawberry." Sungival manages to blurt out, followed by a coughing fit. He his breathing steadies while Jeffery and Lakota examine him for any signs for change.

"Nothing is happening." Lakota says.

"It takes a while to kick in." Sungival says, wiping his mouth. "It needs to digest a bit. You go ahead and drink your potion." Lakota does ask he asks and downs her potion with no histrionics. After roughly thirty seconds, the thin cut across her chest and the bloody bruise below her pectoral scab over.

"Hmm. Not terribly effective." She says "But I do feel better."

"We play with the hand we're dealt." Jeffery says, drawing nearer. He is making peculiar, yet gentle hand motions, appearing ritualistic in nature. "Most potions can't heal the damage done to your leg. But . . .!" he beings to whisper incantations and his hand gestures strengthen in their expression. He grasps Lakota's thigh, each hand on a bandaged wound, a dim light emits from his touch. After roughly thirty seconds, Jeffery's spell ends, and he removes the bandages, revealing that not a trace of injury remains on the leg.

"Wow. Terribly effective." Lakota says with a playful smile.

"I've got an orison for you as well. Hold still." Jeffry presses his hands together in a prayer position, exhales and touches Laokta's shoulder with an index and middle finger. There is no light emitted from this spell yet when he removes his fingers and pulls off the bandage there is a scar where the flesh was punctured. He performs similar motions to the wound under her pectoral and the stab to her back. "A complete recover." He announces.

"Oh, I'm back to one hundred percent eh?" Lakota flexes her arm. "How's your cocktail treating you Sunny?"

"Feeling better already" He replies, the astonishment plain in his voice. While his wounds did not heal entirely, the lacerations in his skin were far less severe. Sungival prods his head with his fingers. "Yep, that bruise is still there. Less lumpy though."

"Seems your foul drink is quite potent." Jeffery says as he presses two finger to each wound to begin his healing. He is mostly successful in treating Sungival's remaining wounds, the cut into the pectoral being the only wound not fully healed. Applying an herb to the injury, Jeffery wraps the wound and tells Sungival the remains of the cut would heal within a day or so.

"Thanks for the treatment, Jeffery." Sungival says, putting his clothing back on. Lakota is still in her undergarments repairing her ripped clothing and armor with a needle, cloth, scrap leather and an adhesive solution. She echo's Sungival's thanks, and quickly turns her attention to her work. Dorian follows suite with a quick word of gratitude, turning his head to look partially in the wagon's interior. "Hmm." Sungival scratches his chin and keeps his gaze on Lakota momentarily. After a few moments, its clear she's absorbed in her task and Sungival turns his attention to where Dorian and Henry are seated. Both men have been keeping their attention on the road, and did not give much indication they were following the conversation in the cart closely. Sungival has a sudden desire to get Henry's attention, but there is an apprehension that arrests his chest when the idea comes to mind. He looks back at Jeffery, who has been silently observing him, as if he were waiting to see what Sungival will say.

"Um." Sungival begins lamely. "So . . . what's your story, Jeffery? Why are you guys out here?" He glances at Henry again. "And how did you meet Henry?" Jeffery follows Sungival's line of sight, and is slow in his response.

"It would be best to hear how we met from Henry. You seem eager to talk to him and I would be doing a disservice to both of you if I spoiled that topic." Jeffery takes a moment to read Sungival's expression, who is caught off guard.

"Oh. um. Thanks. I guess."

"We're tradesmen. Aside from the standard job of marrying couples as a cleric when business is slow, I specialize in finding goods in demand and trading."

"What goods do you specialize in?" Sungival asks, his attention captured.

"We go into dangerous areas and retrieve items that fellows like you and your companions would find interesting. Weapons, armors, magic trinkets and other items."

"So you do your own procurement? A warrior tradesman."

"Trading priest is more accurate." Jeffery corrects him. "Standard affair, as followers of Waukeen are to promote trade whenever possible."

"And what better way to promote trade than to engage in it yourself?" Sungival says.

"Precisely, but not all priests of the faith conduct themselves the way I do. Others follow more academic route, or offer sermons and the like."

"Sermons on trade? Is that like . . . business consulting?" Sungival asks with the tilt of his head. A bemused smile spreads on his face, imaging the scene of a business lecture from a member of the cloth.

"Depends on the priest. There's an entire philosophy structure that trade is predicated upon, but getting back on topic: I deal in various goods but adventurers are a large base of my target customers"

"So you were doing some trading in the area?"

"That was the idea, until we were turned away at Brunson." At the mention of the town, Dorian and Lakota's eyes fixate on Jeffery. He notices the sudden interest immediately. "Are you folks headed there?"

"Yes." Dorian answers. "What can you tell us about the town? Why were you turned away?

"Well . . ." Jeffery begins slowly. "At the base of Crater mountain, the trail that leads to Brunson has a guard outpost there. We were barred access to the trail, the town guards men said the town is under duress and can't accept any new entrants for any reason. They wouldn't share the details but they were quite disturbed. So much so that when Henry revealed his identity in a misguided attempt to get in, they became all the more adamant that we not enter the town. They were ready to use force to keep us out." Sungival's countenance betrays his concern. "Believe me, Henry had even more distress on his face." Jeffery says, addressing Sungival visible anxiety. "I had to drag him away."

"Did they tell you what was happening?" Dorian asks.

"No, they were tight lipped about it. I advised Henry we make for the capital and perhaps return with reinforcements, or gather information. It was then that we encountered those brigands."

"Shoot!" Sungival curses. "What's going on there?"

"Calm down." Dorian tells Sungival. "This is what we're here to solve." Henry starts upon hearing this. "The men we encountered earlier are most likely mercenaries, connected to a group assaulting the town. They probably aren't the only hostiles located in this region. If that's only a fraction of them, there's a major operation underway here."

"Is your company reinforcements from the capital?" Henry asks Dorian, taking off his mask.

"We're reinforcements from the Monastery of the Mind on the mainland."

"The Monastery . . . ?" Henry is visibly surprised to hear this. " Why are they helping Windorin? They don't recognize countries.

"I didn't ask for their reasoning for sending us; it's worth noting that just because they don't recognize governments doesn't mean they don't recognize individuals. The current headmaster, Theicien, knows the Baron of Brunson personally. Maybe it's a personal favor?" Dorian says with a nonchalant shrug.

"We have proof of this too!" Sungival says in excitedly. "Getting pass the guardsmen peacefully will be easy, as we have a letter getting us past any defensive barricade. We'll be treated as reinforcements and allowed in the town." Henry glances back towards Sungival for a moment, and smiles.

"Then we make our way back to Brunson and fight for our people." He says, his voice brimming with conviction and solidarity. Sungival's anxiety eases, and he reflexively returns the smile.

The wagon ride continues without conversation momentarily. Jeffery takes the moment to look over his new companions. Dorian will occasionally lean over and look behind the wagon, betraying his suspicions that they may be pursuers. Jeffery glances at Sungival, who is simply sitting in a half lotus with his eyes on his hands, fingers gingerly pressed against one another. He's clearly immersed in his own thoughts for the time being. By this point, Lakota has fixed her pants and has moved on to her leather armor, it's tough hide proving to be more difficult to mend; applying an adhesive to a spare patch of leather and attaching it to seal the cut. Deciding that Dorian was the leader of the outfit, Jeffery thinks it wise to debrief him, and asks him to switch seats with Sungival.

Dorian climbs into the wagon's interior, motioning Sungival to take his place. Sungival sits next to Henry; he feels a hint of affinity warm his chest. The wagon trots ahead as the pair of men at the rider seat remains quiet. Jeffery is questioning Dorian about on details of their encounter with the highway men. Sungival's eyes eventually meet with Henry's by way of a sideways glance; Henry decides to break the silence between them.

"Well met friend."he says underneath his mask. The lower half of his face is obscured but his eyes are smiling.

"It's good to see you after all this time." Sungival replies, reflecting his warmth.

"Remind me, when was the last time we saw each other?"

"It was well over a year ago. I don't seem to remember the details." Sungival says, scratching his head. "You could use a sword back then, but you weren't anything most would consider formidable."

"Oh? Haha! Yes, I suppose I was quite a pathetic swordsman back then. Even today, I'm not particularly strong. I'm royalty- in line to inherit the throne first and foremost behind my father, but I'm frail compared to my younger siblings.

"Is that accurate?" Sungival asks while looking at the sky. It's as clear and bright as it was yesterday. The passage of time always struck him as jarring after a dangerous escapade. About an hour and a half ago he was fighting for his life, now he was riding on a cart someone he knew from childhood. Henry is friends with Sungival's two older brothers, both stockier and more excitable than Sungival himself. They're knights of Windorin, though where they are currently stationed is anyone's guess. While Sungival came to Drambridge, capital of Windorin a little over a month ago, he didn't try to get in contact with his family. He can't help but wonder where they might be now. If they died in the line of duty, how would he even know, he thought. "What would you even define as strength? Being able to hurt someone?" If he were to challenge his brothers to single combat, he would most certainly win, but he doubts that would constitute him being stronger. Not anymore.

"Well, I certainly would not call being able to hurt someone a weakness. Especially when it comes to the way of the sword." Henry taps the hilt of his sword, resting beside him.

"The way of the warrior." Sungival says dispassionately.

"Yes, precisely! Bushido!" Henry says perking up in excitement and pointing at Sungival after hearing the phrase. "But we call it chivalry in Windorin. By honing one's skill with the sword, one can impose their will on the world. This is but one of several ways to accomplish this imposition; previously I did it through . . ." Henry pauses in his speech as he searches for the words, his right hand gestures to conjure the appropriate language. "I did it through . . . inheritance and learning . . . and through being sheltered and controlled. Coddled to the point of impotency."

"So you became a bodyguard to a merchant?" Sungival replies in jest, smiling.

"I became an apprentice to a merchant!" Henry shouts in faux annoyance.

"Your father is already a prestigious businessman, though. I don't know exactly what he trades in-" Sungival pauses an taps his chin. "Which is odd, considering how long I've been associated with your family- but he's got buildings and ships and he's a big name and everything.

"You do realize that those features could be solely due to the fact that he's next in line for the throne, do you not? With state officials, all their endeavors dressed as market activity could be tax payer funded."

"Ah. That is true. I did not take that into account. I guess I overlooked . . . that glaring detail staring me right in the face." He replies abashed. In the light of this intellectual oversight, Sungival frowns intensely into the spanning road ahead. He finally overcomes his embarrassment and asks: "It would appear my economic prowess is wanting. does your father use taxes to fuel his business endeavors?"

"No. I said that simply to tease you." Henry says chuckling. Sungival folds his arms, annoyed. "My father is a legitimate business man. He apprenticed under a shipwright mogul who was a friend of his father, built up his savings and began to invest. His biggest trade is and always has been shipwright-related business, dealing in raw materials and investing capital. He's primarily a vendor facing merchant, though he always has something that's consumer focused. They come and go, as it's not exactly his forte." Henry removes his mask. "Father had me involved in his business, and I learned a lot, but I was operating in a position of privilege. No matter what I accomplished, it would be filtered through the lens of a guaranteed successor. It started to infect my own expectations."

"What do you mean 'your own expectations'."

"I began to feel entitled. That entitlement leads to comfort, and in any profession, comfort leads to one's downfall." Henry can tell by Sungival's blank expression that he doesn't quite understand. "I believed I would inherit everything independent of my performance. Necessity is the mother of invention, no?"

"You thought because the business was being handed to you, you were going to be a sub-par merchant."

"I was going to be mediocre person, let alone merchant, or royalty. Further more, no accomplishment felt genuine, and . . .well a whole host of other problems. I had to get out o f that arrangement, I was wilting in my father's shadow."

"Wow. That's a great phrase!" Sungival says excitedly

"I beg your pardon?"

"'Wilting in one's shadow.' It's an excellent phrase. I have no idea why it's got me excited but . . ." Sungival's sentence trails off, unable to find the words to articulate.

"It resonates with you, eh? It must have some significance to your state of being." Henry says with confidence.

"Now there's a set of words I don't understand. That must be terminology you picked up from traveling with a priest."

"Yes, but its quite simple to understand the concept." holding the reigns of the horses, Henry lifts his gaze to the sky and inhales deeply. "You left 'The nine of cups', correct? My sister's company" The question strikes a cord within Sungival.

"That's right, I left." He hangs his head. "I took a year hiatus, to deal with personal matters." Something begins to well up in Sungival's stomach; A sickly sensation. The conversation topic was making him physically ill. "That year is just about finished, but here I am."

"I'm glad you left." Henry says resolutely. He turns his gaze to meets Sungival's directly, who is almost reeling back in shock from his words. "It's a good thing you left."

"What are you talking about?" Sungival says, not understanding the emotional tone or even the meaning of Henry's word. Despite his confusion, the black pit forming in his stomach dissipates.

"You look good today, Sungival. You look better than I ever saw you. You were always congested, in more way than one, when you were around Phyllis. I've never seen you this . . . well, open. Like a flower that finally got the sunlight it was craving for. You're in full bloom, or approaching it at the very least." Sungival stares at him blankly monetarily.

"Is that so?" he ruffles his hair bashfully. "I don't feel any different though."

"That's how it usually works." Henry replies.

"Hmm. But I've got a scar on my face, I'm missing a piece of my left ear, I've got bags under my eyes and I'm unshaven. Also, I was carved up like a pig when you saw me." Sungival continues to bashfully protest the praise.

"Even with all that, you still look better than I have ever seen you." Henry putting his mask back on. "We're going to defeat whatever is plaguing Brunson as comrades in arms for the first time, Sungival. This is going to be an excursion to remember."

"Yeah . . ." Sungival says blankly, his expression eventually brightens into a smile. "Yeah, it will." They ride on in silence for a few minutes when Dorian puts his hand on Sungival's and Henry's shoulders. He says they should take turns riding as the lookout, and that he and Jeffery will sit in the rider's seat until afternoon. The men exchange places, and Sungival sits in a half lotus, with his back straight, his hands on his knees and his eyes closed. Henry is intrigued by this and questions Lakota on it, as he feels instinctively that Sungival is not to be disturbed.

"It's rejuvenation meditation." Lakota answers, she's still not wearing her leather armor, but her small cross bow in hand and bolts holstered on her belt. She peeks outside the back of the wagon. "You've got any ranged weapons on you, Henry?"

"Yes, Bow and arrow."

"Hey, not bad." she says with a positive inflection in her voice. "what's the range type on that bow?"

"Medium." He answers succinctly.

"Still covers a range we're weak to. You'll help out immensely with that." she says as she turns to face Henry. She looks him over, the only visible weapon he has on his person is his curved blade his carries on his hip. He has a pouch on the opposite hip. "Bag of holding?" she asks while pointing at the pouch.

"Yes."

"Huh. Looks like Sungival really is the only guy without one. Must be tough lugging that backpack around everywhere he goes. Builds character though."

"What does rejuvenation meditation do?" Henry asks.

"It restores psionic strength. The use of psionic power drains us so we have to focus our energies at restoring ourselves."

"Your a psion too?"

"That's right. I'm of the Egoist Discipline with a focus of a Lurk. I don't know how to do what he's doing, though." She gestures to Sungival with her chin. "So I typically can't recover as efficiently as him. Also, while it looks like he's tuned out, he can hear us just fine."

"And Dorian? Is he a Psion too?"

"Nope, he's just big and scary and hits really hard. What about you?"

"Oh. Me?" Henry points at himself. "I'm just a warrior, sword and bow is what I'm good with."

"Let's take a look at that bow then, huh?"

The journey continues without incident until the afternoon. The group stops momentarily for lunch, eating their prepared rations and reviewing their location via map. Dorian is still walking about without armor, and has equipped himself with with the short sword he wore last night, foregoing his gauntlets. He tells the crew that his armor is currently out of commission and while Jeffery can fix its problem, it will have to wait until tomorrow. He assures the group that he can defend himself fine, and that being unarmored has its advantages. There's continues to be no sign of pursuers, but they remain vigilant. It is decided that the men of the company will continue to rotate in sitting at the drivers seat of the wagon, Lakota is best kept out of sight due to her strengths. Its not much later when an incident strikes while Sungival and Henry are steering the wagon on the road.

Before them, without warning, the large thick trees which flanked each side of the road collapse onto the trail with a thunderous boom, baring the company's path in dramatic fashion. Henry struggles to calm the horses, they utter a panic fueled whinny at the sudden obstruction and excitement, while Sungival stands and draws his sword and shield.

"This is the work of magic. Is it the druid?" he asks aloud, looking frantically about him for signs of the enemy. He looks to the right, no signs. He looks towards the left, and sees a human silhouette step behind a tree several yards beyond the road. "Enemy to the left!" he warns his companions .

"Sungival! Right of the wagon!" He hears Lakota shout. He spins round with arms up but the end of a wooden staff strikes his chin with deadly precision and stunning force, turning his head with jolting impact and all his senses fade to black.


End file.
